


Ghosting For Beginners

by Thistlepaw



Category: South Park
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Bullying, Character Turned Into a Ghost, Craig's Gang, Fist Fights, Gen, Haunting, Mental Health Issues, Paranormal, Slow Burn, ghost au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-18
Updated: 2019-11-06
Packaged: 2019-11-23 17:47:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 40
Words: 236,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18155051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thistlepaw/pseuds/Thistlepaw
Summary: Fresh out of mental hospital, Tweek Tweak just wants to keep his head down and blend in. Only problem is, there's a very persistent ghost trying to get his attention...





	1. People would think you're crazy, right?

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, hi! This story was very much inspired by Irondude's Ghost AU (and not by my dreams at all, for once), which you can find here: http://iron-dude.tumblr.com/tagged/ghost+au  
> Their art is amazing, so please go check it out! 
> 
> Normally when I write, I like to have at least a finished first draft before I start showing it to people. But, as this thing grew into a 60+ page beast, I decided to throw caution to the wind and post the first few scenes here anyway. I hope you like it! It starts off a little bit sad, but I promise it will get more fun as we go along and the boys discover all the neat stuff a ghost can do...
> 
> Also... This story casts a well-loved character as a vicious bully, which I have to admit I'm a little bit nervous about! But, given this character's home life, I felt like this is a direction he could have gone in, if things had gone a little differently in his life.

It’s his first day back in school, since the hospital. Tweek didn’t even want to go, but Dad drove him and Mom all the way here on his way to work. Like he wanted to make sure Tweek didn’t make a run for it. And now he’s in the councillors’ office, sitting next to Mom on one of those awful metal chairs.  
_When you have next to no ass, those must be uncomfortable as hell._  
Tweek looks up, startled. Where did that thought even come from?  
“… do our best to make sure his re-integration goes as smoothly as possible,” Mr Mackey is saying, his eyes large and fishlike behind his glasses. “M’kay, Tweek? So if anyone bothers you, you come talk to me ‘bout it, right?”  
There’s a loose thread sticking out of his left shirt cuff, and Tweek listlessly tugs at it. “All right,” he mutters, mostly for Mom’s sake. Like there would even be a point in talking to Mackey, or anyone. His best bet is just to keep his head down until they get bored.  
_Dude – you actually heard me!?_  
Tweek jumps in his seat. The voice was so loud, so happy – and so damn close to his ear. So familiar too, but he can’t quite put his finger on who…  
“Tweek?” Mom is doing her best to sound all calm and reassuring, but her voice is too shaky to be convincing. “Is it too soon?”  
He turns to look at her. At the dark circles under his mother’s eyes, visible even under the makeup. At the neckline of her mint green sweater, right where the scalloped collar of her shirt ends, where there’s a little square picked out in slightly darker thread. That’s the stitching around the label - she’s wearing that thing backwards. Her hair’s grown out of her usual bob, too. Funny, how he hadn’t noticed that until now. How Mom’s forgotten to go to the hairdresser since Tweek got himself sectioned. He’s not the only one around here who’s starting to unravel.  
“It’s fine,” Tweek lies, and reaches out to give Mom’s hand a little squeeze. What the hell is going on, anyway? He wasn’t hearing voices _before_ the hospital, so why now? “I just… thought of something. Sorry.”  
“All right.” Mom squeezes his hand back, gives him a smile that looks more like a wince.  
“M’kay,” Mackey says, clearly not buying it. Just then, a sunbeam shines in through the window behind the councillor’s desk, lighting up the dust motes in the air. They’re hovering just above the row of folders lined up on the shelf behind him, and they almost appear to be falling slowly, like snow. “If you need to go home early, just come see me.”  
_I can’t believe this – you’re the first person who’s been able to hear me! ___  
“Thank you, sir,” Tweek says, dropping his gaze onto his hands again. Doing his best to pretend he still can’t hear that damn voice, which is now coming from over by the door. “I’ll… do my best,” he adds, just to say something. Do his best to… what? Not have another episode? Not let on that he can suddenly hear a voice nobody else can hear?  
Mom’s skirt rustles as she stands up. Taking that as his cue, Tweek gets up, too. Lets her hug him tight, even though the councillor is sitting _right there._  
“I’ll be fine,” he whispers, willing himself to believe it, and tucks a lock of hair behind Mom’s ear. “You should go for a haircut,” he adds, and tries his best for a convincing smile. “The morning rush’ll be over now, anyway. Dad’ll be all right on his own until noon.”  
Mom blinks, her hand subconsciously going up to touch the ends of her hair. Even her fringe has grown out, leaving a bare triangle of skin on her forehead. “I might just do that,” she says, and suddenly shoots him that mischievous little grin he hasn’t seen since before the hospital. Like a schoolgirl about to play hooky. “You know I don’t feel like myself…”  
“…without a French bob.” Tweek finishes the sentence for her – he’s heard it a million times, anyway – and this time, it’s not so hard to smile. “I’ll be fine, Mom. Really.” 

_Oh, I get it,_ the voice is saying, as Tweek walks through the hallway. _You don’t want to let on that you can hear me. People would think you’re crazy, right?_  
“People already think I’m crazy,” Tweek mutters, and then slaps his hand over his mouth in horror. What the hell is he thinking, talking to himself like this? In _school,_ of all places? Luckily, nobody seems to have heard, though – kids are milling around like they always do, chatting and switching their bags from one shoulder to the other. Chewing gum and shouting out names, taking books out, putting books in, slamming their lockers shut. Tweek might as well be invisible in this din, and that’s not a bad thing.  
In the pockets of his jeans, the two tubes of pills rattle. Xanax, for anxiety, in the left-hand pocket. Anfranil, for OCD, in the right. Both linked to his ADHD, or so the psychiatrist told him, back at the clinic. Because no diagnosis is ever clear-cut; a diagnosis always comes with extras – like buying a bouquet of roses, and discovering they threw in those green frond things and the little white flowers for free. Xanax and Anfranil; they sound like a knight and his squire from some shitty fantasy novel.  
_Ah, I’m sorry, man! I’m just so glad I can finally talk to someone! But I wouldn’t want to get you into trouble or anything…_  
Maybe the voice is a side-effect brought on by the pills. Tweek knows he should probably have mentioned it to Mom, before she left to catch a bus back into town. He just… didn’t want to make her worry. Not any more than she has to. Tweek shifts his grip to his backpack straps, clutching them as hard as he can. His hands are shaking so bad, but he can totally do this. For his parents’ sake, he has to. 

He keeps his head down as he walks into the classroom. _Xanax and Anfranil, Xanax and Anfranil,_ he chants silently to himself. He’s got those to fall back on, if things get too bad – though if Tweek’s being completely honest with himself, he hates taking them. Hates the way they make him feel so sluggish, like he’s walking through mud, talking with a mouth full of sand. Not that he’s planning to do much talking in class. He’s seen what’ll happen, if he acts too smart.  
Tweek makes a beeline for his desk, even though someone’s saying his name. Better to just keep himself to himself, and not get drawn into anything. At least no-one else has tried to claim this desk, which in Tweek’s opinion is the best seat in the house. It’s at the very back, and it’s right behind Craig Tucker’s seat. He’ll have an uninterrupted view of the back of Craig’s neck, where one lock of black hair curls out from under that old knitted hat he always wears.  
Just for a second – as though thinking about Craig has summoned him, somehow – Tweek could swear he sees him there, sitting with his butt on his desk, his feet on the chair. Wearing what Tweek’s always secretly thought of as his IKEA-hat. Arms spread wide like he wants to hug the whole world. Grinning from ear to ear, even though Craig normally never shows much emotion – that’s part of what makes him so intriguing. But nope, Craig’s not here yet, and his seat is still empty…  
“Hey Tweek.” He looks up, sees Token Black hovering at his left elbow, chewing the corner of his lip. Impeccably dressed as always; a neatly pressed shirt tucked inside a purple cashmere sweater, and Tweek doesn’t even want to _guess_ how much those jeans cost. “It’s nice to… see you back.”  
It takes him just a little too long to realise he’s supposed to say something back. “Thanks,” Tweek says, dropping his gaze to his desk. Someone’s scrubbed it, he realizes, washed all the crude drawings and accusations away. Must’ve taken some serious elbow-grease; those things were written with _Sharpies._  
“You should… have lunch with us,” Token says, haltingly, after the silence has dragged out for slightly too long. “If you want, I mean.”  
_Poor Token,_ the voice says, but Tweek’s getting better at pretending, now. He barely even flinches. “Thanks,” he says again – it’s a pretty safe bet. Not declining the offer, but not accepting it, either. Not until he knows what’s behind it.  
“Well, well – look who’s back!”  
Oh no. Tweek can’t help but flinch, even though he instantly hates himself for it. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Token puff himself up, like he actually wants to speak up for Tweek – for the first time ever. Shame he didn’t feel like doing _that_ a month ago.  
“You leave him alone, McCormick,” Token says, like Kenny McCormick doesn’t scare him at all.  
“Or you’ll do what, Token? _Pay_ us to go away?” That’s not Kenny’s voice, that’s…  
“S-s-same goes for you, Eric,” Jimmy Valmer pipes up, from further down the classroom. “You b-better watch it, I’ve got crutches! I’ll knock your head c-c-clean off!”  
Panic is churning inside him now, hot and sour, like vomit about to burst out of his mouth. _Xanax and Anfranil,_ Tweek reminds himself, like he’s chanting a sutra. But, it’s getting so hard to breathe.  
“Everyone! Get to your seats!” Mr Young has just walked into the classroom, and even Cartman isn’t stupid enough to push his luck with the new history teacher. Well. The rest of them have had a whole month to get used to him, while Tweek was locked away.  
It seems the lesson’s starting, now, even though Craig’s still not at his desk. No tanned neck for Tweek to look at, no little black curl. For all that they got tricked into fighting each other in elementary school, Craig’s pretty much the only one in class Tweek isn’t scared to talk to. He sighs. Maybe just as well. Craig would probably say hi to him, too, and then Tweek’s tongue would just swell in his mouth until he’d _really_ embarrassed himself.  
_There_ is _another way I could talk to you,_ the voice is saying, _So nobody but us would notice. But I’d need to borrow you for a second. And even then, I’m not sure if it’ll work…_  
Tweek wonders if he’d get in trouble for taking his pills right here and now. In the classroom, while Mr Young’s talking. He’s got a half-empty water bottle in his backpack; all he needs to do is slip his hand in there and…  
Suddenly, Tweek has the weirdest sensation. Like an ice-cold jolt, going all the way through his body. And then, it’s like he’s… _watching_ his right hand pass the ball-pen into his left hand, somehow. Like it’s not _him_ that’s doing it. Tweek can feel his breath hitch a little as his left hand starts writing _for_ him, in a writing that’s absolutely not his own. It’s _tidier_ than his own hand-writing; for all that Tweek is right-handed and can’t even draw a straight line with his left hand. Let alone… this.  
_Check it out, automatic writing_ , it says, right there on the page. _Sorry, man, this might take some getting used to. For both of us, I mean._  
Tweek wants to scream. He wants to, but holy crap, he really can’t afford to. He doesn’t want to go back to that hospital, not now, not _ever._ So he forces his mouth shut, clamps his teeth together as hard as he can. It’s like trying to sit up straight after he’s just woken up; a conscious act of will. It’s exhausting.  
_I should explain,_ his left hand carries on writing, _But it’s hard to tell you this stuff in a way that won’t freak you out. So I’ll just come out and say it. I’m dead._  
Tweek’s hand spasms; and he drops the pen. It rolls across the page, comes to rest in the little groove where his notebook’s been stapled together. Mr Young is saying something about Abraham Lincoln, but to Tweek, it might as well be the wind blowing.  
Slowly, he reaches out. Picks the pen up in his right hand, and writes, _Who are you,_ underneath all that other writing. The contrast is huge; Tweek’s own shaky scrawl looks so ugly in comparison. Then, he deliberately puts the pen back down. Places his left hand palm-down on the page, and waits.  
Tweek doesn’t have to wait for very long. He recognises it now, that cold feeling; that shot of something that might be electricity. He watches his own fingers curl around the pen, cupping it sort of inwards, almost… protectively.  
Then, he watches his own hand write, _Craig Tucker._

Craig Tucker is dead. Shit. That explains… well, everything. How subdued Token is, like he’s constantly trying not to burst into tears. How snappy Jimmy is, like he’s just looking for an excuse to get into a fight. Not to mention Clyde Donovan, who hasn’t said a word since he came into class, all glassy-eyed, and sank into his usual seat – Clyde looks like a damn _zombie._ Tweek can feel his own throat start to tighten up, his own eyes starting to burn. But no, he can’t. Because if he starts to cry; he knows he won’t be able to stop. No more staring at Craig’s neck, willing class to be over. No more wishing he could reach out and twist that lock of black hair around his finger.  
_It’s not so bad,_ Craig is saying, and Tweek can actually see him now. _Being dead, I mean._ He’s perched on his old desk with his back to the teacher, surrounded by a sort of... nimbus, a halo of blue light that’s almost too faint to see. Arms resting on his knees, smiling at Tweek in a way that’s probably meant to be reassuring. _So you don’t need to feel sorry for me or anything._  
The whole thing is so absurd; Tweek can’t help but grin back at Craig. He’s rubbing his left arm, which feels like he’s dunked it in icy water and held it there for a while. All numb and frozen from Craig possessing him – because that’s what it was, full on possession by his dead classmate’s ghost. Tweek believes in calling a spade a spade. And now, maybe because he’s got used to the idea, Tweek can see Craig just fine. Oh sure, he seems a little less… substantial than everyone else in the classroom. Sort of like he’s… blurring at the edges. Tweek doesn’t really have the right vocabulary to describe a ghost. But still. It’s definitely Craig, even though he’s dropped his usual stoicism. How long has he been like this? Trapped between worlds, with no one to talk to? So lonely, he’s even happy to talk to _Tweek?_  
Tweek picks up the pen again in his right hand, and instantly, Craig’s gone from sitting on the desk in front of him to hovering behind his shoulder. Since class is still in full swing, Tweek can’t exactly talk to him normally. _How did it happen,_ he writes. It’s the obvious question, and he _needs_ to know. Even though Craig might not want to talk about his own death.  
It’s strange, how only the parts of Craig that he’s focusing on seem real – like, right now? All that Tweek can perceive of him is his right arm, braced against Tweek’s desk. That and the icy cold emanating from Craig’s cheek, just centimeters away from his own face, as Craig reads through Tweek’s question.  
_A car hit me,_ Craig replies, and he doesn’t sound sad about it at all. More like… flat. Like his usual voice, before he died. Like he’s trying to act like his old self; the Craig that Tweek would remember. _On the way to school. Clyde and Jimmy were right behind me on Clyde’s bike,_ Craig goes on, as though he’s talking about the weather. _At least they didn’t get hit._  
A cold certainty settles over Tweek. He writes, _The driver didn’t stop?_ Even though he already knows the answer. No wonder Jimmy’s so angry.  
_Nah,_ Craig tells him. _He was probably running late for work or something?_  
Tweek snorts, even though it’s awful. It’s not funny at all! But Craig – suddenly in front of him now, arms folded on Tweek’s desk, leaning forward until their noses would touch if he were actually solid… Craig also looks like he’s trying not to laugh. And even though everything has gone so wrong, Craig’s here; and actually talking to him. Only to him. It’s the longest conversation they’ve ever had.  
“Excuse me, back there!” Tweek suddenly jerks upright, as he realises the teacher is talking directly to _him._ “Tweek, is it? Is there anything you find amusing about Abraham Lincoln’s assassination? Anything that you’d like to share with the class?”  
“Gah! No, sir,” Tweek almost screams, setting off a chain reaction of laughter around the classroom. Not everyone is laughing, though – Token seems puzzled, and Clyde gives him a look that’s almost accusing. Like he can’t forgive anyone for having fun, now that Craig’s dead.  
_Tell him you had to clear your throat,_ Craig suddenly whispers in his ear, and Tweek latches onto that idea like a drowning man grasping for a plank. “I’m sorry,” he yells, “I was – gnk – just coughing!”  
Mr Young looks at him until Tweek squirms – like he’s some kind of troublemaker-insect hybrid, fascinating but bothersome – before he turns back to the blackboard. “When Lincoln finally breathed his last”, he says, resuming the lesson as if nothing has happened at all, “After nine hours of fighting for his life, he is said to have died with a smile on his face.”  
_What an asshole,_ Craig drawls, and flips the teacher off with his blurry hand.  
“And after Lincoln was pronounced dead, what did Edwin M. Stanton say,” the teacher goes on, eyes scanning the classroom. Two hands shoot up; one pale-skinned, one brown. “Yes, Black?”  
“Now he belongs to the angels,” Token says, and to Tweek it looks like the other boy is closing his eyes. Like it’s not Abraham Lincoln he’s talking about at all.


	2. The best cure for a sad and mopey heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song that Leo Stotch (it feels wrong to refer to this version of him as Butters) plays in this chapter is by The Smiths, from their very last album, Strangeways Here We Come, and you can listen to the song here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3GhoWZ5qTwI  
> I wish I could brag about my in-depth knowledge of their music, but the truth is, I got this song off the soundtrack from the Bumblebee movie!

The school cafeteria is loud enough to set Tweek’s teeth on edge. He takes a tray from the stack at the far end of the counter, then looks over his shoulder to make extra sure nobody from his class managed to get behind him. But thankfully, it’s just two seventh-graders, _and_ they’re girls.  
_What’s wrong,_ Craig asks him, standing right by Tweek’s elbow.  
Tweek rolls his eyes at him – even if he could answer that, he wouldn’t want to. Maybe Craig’s forgotten what happened in here, exactly one month ago. Aren’t ghosts supposed to be a, a loose collection of memories, or something? Rather than the spirit of an actual person? Tweek glances over at Craig again, standing there with his hands shoved down the back pockets of his jeans. There’s nothing patchy about this version of Craig. He looks pretty real now, pretty… solid, almost. _Sorry,_ he’s saying, _I forgot you’re not supposed to see me_. Craig sounds almost sad, though, even if his voice is just as flat and toneless as when he was alive. _I guess you don’t want people to think you’ve gone crazy._  
“Crazi _er,_ ” Tweek mutters, out of the corner of his mouth. It’s not a secret, is it, where he’s been for most of October. Here in the cafeteria, it feels like the entire _school_ knows, and is whispering about it.  
Once he gets to the head of the line, he orders the only vegetarian meal option – it’s veggie casserole with rice today – and a cup of their weak, sub-standard coffee. His hands shake so badly that his change goes everywhere when he tries to pocket it. One of the girls in line behind him, the one with the lip piercing and a purple stripe in her hair, squats down and picks up the coins that landed on the floor for him. “Thanks,” Tweek tells her, unable to look the girl in the eyes, before he hurries over to claim his food.  
Then he stands there, looking over the tables, the waving arms and jostling bodies. He can’t move; he’s rooted to the spot, cold sweat running down his back. Maybe if he’s quick, he can slip out in the hallway without the serving staff noticing. Then he can go eat his lunch in a toilet stall, like Lindsay Lohan in Mean Girls.  
_You know,_ Craig is saying, _Token never says anything he doesn’t mean._  
“I can’t just go sit with your friends,” Tweek hisses, praying nobody will notice.  
_Why not?_ Craig looks honestly puzzled. Tweek can think of a million reasons why not, or at the very least, a thousand. But the sooner he eats, the sooner he can take his Xanax. The sooner he’ll stop feeling like the whole room is closing in on him. So Tweek shrugs, and starts looking around for Craig’s little group.  
He finds them at one of the corner tables, the ones that only seat four people – six, if you pull up extra chairs from somewhere else. So that one empty seat is like a glaring reminder. That seat should have been Craig’s.  
“Tweek,” Token says, noticing him straightaway. Jimmy looks up too, and actually grins.  
“C-come on,” Jimmy says, waving Tweek over, “We k-kept a seat for you!”  
Clyde says nothing, just keeps picking at his piece of battered fish with his fork. Like he doesn’t give a damn whether Tweek sits next to him or not.  
“Eat that,” Token says, gently smacking Clyde in the shoulder, as Tweek pulls the remaining chair out. “Or I’m telling your dad.”  
“You need you energy for f-football p-p-practice,” Jimmy chimes in, before he shoves a big forkful of pasta into his own mouth. Almost like he’s trying to remind his friend of how you’re supposed to eat.  
Clyde doesn’t respond to either of them, but he does break off a piece of fish with his fork, before he listlessly starts to chew on it.  
Craig squats next to Tweek on the floor, crossing his wrists on the table-top and resting his chin on top of them. Peering over at Clyde with what looks a lot like concern. _Somebody needs to cheer him up,_ Craig says, just as Tweek is about to take his first bite of food.  
Tweek chokes. What do you expect, Craig, he wants to shout, The guy watched his best friend die! Instead, he swallows a piece of carrot whole, and it goes down the wrong pipe. Tweek coughs until he can feel tears starting to pop out of his eyes. Until a big, square hand smacks him once between the shoulder blades, hard and fast. Dislodging that piece of carrot with such force that Tweek ends up spitting it out on the table. It just lies there, bright orange and slimy with saliva, in between everyone’s lunch trays.  
“Oh God, I’m – ngh – I’m sorry,” Tweek exclaims, one hand automatically slipping up inside his hair and starting to tug.  
“Why,” Token asks, sounding honestly puzzled as he scoops the thing up with a paper napkin and deposits it in a corner of his own tray. “It could happen to anybody.”  
“I guess,” Tweek mutters, sneakily looking over at Clyde. Did he really hit Tweek’s back just now? He’s gone back to slowly breaking his fish apart, chewing like he’s trying not to throw each piece back up. He doesn’t even glance in Tweek’s direction.  
“Don’t p-pull your hair out, Tweek,” Jimmy says, and his smile is so kind that Tweek can’t help but lower his hand. He gets back to eating, since he’s only supposed to have Xanax _or_ Anfranil on a full stomach. Not that Tweek wants to take any Anfranil if he can avoid it – he only brought those to school as a last resort. Besides, he barely pulled his hair at all before Jimmy stopped him, so that totally doesn’t count as obsessive-compulsive behaviour.  
Token and Jimmy slowly resume their chat, once they realise Tweek’s not keen to contribute anything. It’s kind of stilted, kind of desperate, like they’re not used to holding up everything on their own. Like they’ve grown too used to Craig and Clyde chiming in. Tweek used to observe the four of them from afar, always laughing and interrupting each other, snatching food off each other’s plates. He used to wish for a place at their table, but now that he’s go one… It’s just too depressing.  
“I thought it w-was “Now he’s w-with the _ages,_ ” Jimmy is saying, and it takes Tweek a minute to realise that he’s talking about Stanton, after Lincoln got shot. Like he actually _cares_ about the lesson they just left. Didn’t Jimmy used to run his comedy routines by his friends during lunch breaks? Tweek never sat close enough to actually hear Jimmy’s jokes, but you could always gauge by his friends whether they were any good or not. He remembers seeing Craig spray their whole table with food once, hacking and choking while Token scolded him and Clyde kept hitting his back, and Jimmy just folded his arms, looking pleased as punch.  
“It’s unclear exactly what he said,” Token replies, swilling his bottle of orange juice to dislodge all the pulp that’s gathered in the bottom. “Different eye-witnesses remember different things.”  
“That makes sense,” Jimmy says, nodding to himself. “Clyde and I can’t even agree what c–c-colour the car was.”  
The car? As in, the car that hit Craig while he was riding his bike to school? Tweek lowers his fork. It’s not like this even _tastes_ of anything, anyway.  
_Tweek,_ Craig says, _Can you_ please _get them to talk about something fun? Before I die all over again. Of boredom,_ he adds, very seriously.  
“Um,” Tweek says, pulling the water bottle out of his backpack. Three mouthfuls have got to count as a full stomach, right? “Okay, so…” The other three have all turned to look at him – even Clyde. The pressure of coming up with something good to say is suddenly overwhelming. “I mean,” he stalls, struggling to keep his voice under control, and on pure impulse he yanks the tube of Xanax from his pocket. “Would it be weird if I take my pills now?!”  
_Dude,_ Craig says, pinching the bridge of his nose.  
Token’s mouth is dangling open, while Jimmy keeps opening and closing his mouth like a fish. Slowly, Clyde shakes his head, before he turns back to his lunch and chokes down another mouthful.  
“Clyde’s right,” Token says, as if Clyde had actually spoken out loud. “Nothing weird about that at all.” There’s a desperate edge to Token’s voice, like he’s trying to claw back any semblance of normality that he can. Tweek can definitely empathize.  
“Y-yeah,” Jimmy says, and shakes his head a little, like he’s trying to shake himself awake. “D-definitely not w-weird!”  
But, just as Tweek’s about to unscrew the cap on his Xanax, he’s distracted by a loud squeak on the PA system. All over the cafeteria, people drop their cutlery and cover their ears. After that first, awful sound, someone starts talking in a jolly Southern accent. The first few words are all garbled; but Tweek immediately recognises that voice. It’s Leo Stotch – someone Tweek’s always been wary of. Because Stotch is friends with Cartman and McCormick, for all that he’s never outright bullied anyone himself. In fact, Stotch tends to be so _absurdly_ nice to people that it makes them nervous.  
“Hello ladies and fellers,” Stotch’s voice rings out over the auditorium. “We’ve all had a rough start to the semester, haven’t we? But what’s the best cure for a sad and mopey heart?”  
_What’s that creepy little shit up to now,_ Craig asks, like he’s not expecting a response at all. Tweek can’t help but smile, just a little. It’s kind of nice, how he and Craig seem to feel the same way about that guy.  
“Why, that’s a little bit of music, of course,” Stotch is saying. “And since there’s nobody that needs more cheerin’ up than my pal Clyde Donovan, well… Here’s your favourite song, Clyde!”  
A beat starts to play, what sounds like bass and electric guitar. As those first bars ring out over the auditorium, it’s as if time slows down, just for Tweek. He sees Kenny McCormick, as always wearing his filthy parka indoors, stand up from a table to his right and make his slow, ambling way over towards where Tweek is sitting. Tall, skinny, and indestructible. On his own, though – no sight of Eric Cartman. He sees Token and Jimmy exchange a quick, worried glance – and he sees Clyde straighten up, squaring his shoulders, like he can sense McCormick approaching even though he’s got his back to him.  
“Girlfriend in a coma, I know,” the voice rings out of the PA, all soft and sympathetic, “I know, it’s serious…” A collective gasp seems to go through the whole cafeteria, as Clyde slowly stands up and turns to face a grinning McCormick.  
Wait – was Clyde’s mom in a coma before she died? Tweek has no idea, that was all _years_ ago. There had been rumours flying around class, but Tweek had kept his nose out of it, like he always did.  
“Girlfriend in a coma, I know, I know…” Now that he’s come all the way up to their table, Tweek can see how McCormick’s got a black eye, all puffy and swollen, and how his lip’s been split from a half-healed punch to the face. Not that McCormick himself seems very bothered by this. “It’s really serious,” the singer croons, as Clyde suddenly grabs the other boy by the throat. Shakes him for a second, like a wet rag, before he throws McCormick to the floor and drops on top of him. Pinning the skinny boy’s shoulders to the ground with his knees, while he rhythmically punches him in the face – right hand, then left hand, then right hand again. “There were times when I could have murdered her,” the song goes on – weirdly appropriate, as that seems to be exactly what Clyde is trying to do. McCormick’s lip splits again, and blood trickles down his chin, but he’s still grinning like he knows he’s got the upper hand.  
“Clyde,” Token is yelling, vaulting onto the table, then over it. “Clyde, don't!” His foot kicking Tweek’s tray to the floor without Token even noticing, even though the crash is impossibly loud. “Jimmy, you stay there,” he adds, jabbing a finger at Jimmy, who’s half out of his seat already. “I mean it, Jimmy!”  
Jimmy looks outright furious, but he does sink back down. Tweek’s not got the time to worry about him though, because if there’s one thing McCormick’s always known, it’s how to take a hiding. Clyde isn’t hurting him at all. This is all part of some plan, which means…  
Cartman. Barrelling through the cafeteria from over by the vending machines, fist clenched already, like he’s trying to give his punch extra force by running. No wonder McCormick’s got that smug look on his face, because his backup is on the way – and that guy is _fast,_ for all that he’s enormous.  
_No,_ Craig is saying, and for the first time, he actually sounds afraid. _I’m sorry, Tweek, but I can’t let them!_  
Sorry about what, Tweek wants to ask – but then, his whole body goes cold at once. Suddenly, someone who _isn’t_ him has thrown Tweek’s arms around Token’s slim waist and is pulling with all his might, just as Token is about to make a grab for Clyde’s shoulders. So Cartman’s fist sails right by Token’s face, and hits Clyde between the shoulder blades instead.  
Token may not weigh all that much, but Tweek weighs even less, so the other boy lands half on top of him, and half on top of Clyde’s abandoned lunch tray. In the sudden silence, Tweek realises that song is still playing: “I would hate anything to happen to her. No, I don’t want to see her!”  
Pinned underneath his classmate, Tweek sees Clyde turns around, teeth bared like a dog, to block a second punch from Cartman. And McCormick, finally seeing the opening he’s been waiting for, wraps his arms up through Clyde’s armpits before he yanks his head back, head-butting Clyde in the back of the skull.  
_No,_ Craig yells, but his voice is coming from inside Tweek’s own chest.  
Tweek feels his own hands push Token off, before his legs crouch _for_ him, and he jumps. He jumps right onto Eric Cartman’s back, his right arm wrapping around the other boy’s thick neck while his left hand balls into a fist, and punches the fat boy right in the ear.  
Cartman roars like a panicking animal. He’s trying to shake Tweek off now, but Craig is stronger than him, more used to fighting. Even though Tweek’s legs are short, he somehow manages to wrap them around Cartman’s waist, locking them into place. His right arm tightens around Cartman’s neck, but even though he’s not the one doing the fighting, Tweek can sense that it’s a diversion tactic. Sure enough, as soon as Cartman’s stopped thrashing around quite so much, Craig loosens his grip and uses Tweek’s body to jump off him, landing in a crouch next to Clyde. The perfect position to kick McCormick in the knee.  
This, finally, seems to have got McCormick’s attention. He yowls with pain, letting Clyde drop to the ground so he can bend over and wrap his hands around his knee. When he looks back up, the pure hatred in those sky-blue eyes of his would have made Tweek take a step back, or ten, if he’d actually been in charge of his own body right now. As it is, Craig stands him back up, and extends Tweek’s throbbing left hand to Clyde. And Clyde takes it, eyes wide but not questioning it at all, though he’s mostly using his own bodyweight to propel himself to his feet.  
“I can’t take on Cartman when I’m like this,” Tweek hears himself say – though really, it’s Craig saying it, borrowing his voice like he’s borrowing his body. “Swap with me!”  
Clyde nods, just once, pressing his back against Tweek’s. Slowly, they walk around each other, literally guarding each other’s back, as the taller, bulkier Clyde prepares to face off against Cartman. And Tweek’s going to have to fight McCormick now – Jesus! The tall, skinny kid seems to have decided his knee’s good enough to stand on, and is taking little jumping, testing steps back and forth – like a boxer. Like he’s warming up for the main act, which will no doubt involve beating Tweek senseless. “Do you really think she’ll pull through,” the singer croons, “Girlfriend in a coma, I know…”  
“We can do this,” Tweek hears Craig say, in his own voice. Whether he’s talking to Tweek or Clyde, or both of them, is impossible to tell. Clyde still doesn’t reply, but Tweek can feel him tensing up. Flexing those wide footballer’s shoulders, readying himself.  
“HEY,” a voice suddenly rings out, drowning out even the music, “YOU BOYS QUIT SCREWING AROUND!!”

After a quick trip to see the nurse, they have to wait on the bench outside Mr Mackey’s office. Clyde sits on the left side, and Tweek sits on the right, pressing the icepack the nurse brought him against his swollen knuckles. Craig goes and sits in the empty space between them, elbows on his knees, peering first into Tweek’s face, and then into Clyde’s. _Sorry I went and got you into trouble,_ he says at last, turning back to Tweek. _On your first day back and everything._  
“It’s okay,” Tweek says, without thinking. It’s only when Clyde turns sharply to look at him that Tweek realizes his mistake. “It’s _gonna be_ okay,” he corrects himself, but he doesn’t sound very convincing. How long, before the rumours start to spread? About how he’s so crazy, he just sits around talking into thin air? And he doesn’t even _have_ the Xanax anymore, the tube landed on the table and who _knows_ where it ended up, kicked around amongst all the discarded food. Maybe McCormick even picked the pills up, thinking he’d at least gained _something_ from this fight, and is planning on selling them on the street later?  
Before he even knows it, Tweek’s dug both hands into his hair, even though the left one still hurts something fierce, and started to tug. Tears are leaking out of his eyes. Snot is running from his nose and into his open mouth.  
_Aw shit, don’t cry, Tweek,_ Craig is saying. _I’m sorry I used your body without asking!_  
But, now that the last bit of adrenaline from the fight seems to have left him, there’s nothing holding Tweek together anymore. Nothing to stop him from ripping all his hair out, and drowning in his own tears and snot.  
_Tweek, come on,_ Craig pleads, _It can’t be that bad, can it?_  
Suddenly, warm hands close around Tweek’s wrists. He looks up, and right into Clyde’s eyes. Clyde shakes his head, slowly and sadly, before he pulls Tweek’s hands out of his hair. Clyde’s not even using a fraction of his strength; Tweek can tell how careful he’s being as he brings Tweek’s hands down to rest on his knees.  
“Oh-oh-okay,” Tweek hiccups, fingers curling around his kneecaps as he struggles desperately to get a hold of himself. “I-I’ll try not to do that anymore.”  
Clyde looks over his shoulder – the hallway is completely deserted – before he gets off the bench. Crossing the distance to the men’s room further down the hall in just a few long strides. He comes back with a whole toilet roll, which he puts down on the bench next to Tweek.  
Then he sits back down, looks away while Tweek blows his nose and tidies himself up.  
“Thanks,” Tweek says, and Clyde just shrugs in response. Like he wants to say, don’t mention it, only he’s forgotten how.  
The door to the councillor’s office suddenly opens, and Mr Mackey waves them in. He looks ancient, and exhausted. “You two can come in now, m’kay,” he says, and Tweek figures he might as well bring the toilet roll with him. It was a present, after all. As he slips inside, he sees to his horror that Stotch is already sitting there, in the middle seat of the three chairs Mackey’s put out. With a box of tissues in his lap, hiccupping and sniffling.  
“H-hey, Clyde,” Stotch says, ignoring Tweek for now. That’s kind of a relief.  
Clyde just stares at him. Blinks once, before he walks around Stotch and sits down on his right side. There’s nothing for Tweek to do but take the last seat. At least Craig is still with him, standing behind Tweek’s chair like some kind of… some kind of anime butler or something. It may be stupid, but even though he’s not _really_ there, Craig’s presence helps him relax. Just a bit. Especially when he flips Mackey off with both hands.  
“Now boys,” Mr Mackey says, “Before we begin our little chat, Leo here has something to say to you, m’kay?”  
Stotch draws a deep breath, before he blurts out, “Oh Clyde, I’m awful sorry! The fellers just gave me this burned CD and told me that was your favourite track! And you’ve been so down in the dumps lately, I honestly just wanted to cheer you up a little! I didn’t mean to go around _implyin’_ anything…”  
His voice eventually trails off, because there’s no reaction to be had from Clyde at all. His face is like stone; there’s no sign, now, of the boy who ran off to get Tweek tissues. Of the boy who gently stopped him from pulling his own hair out.  
“Clyde?” Mr Mackey sounds like he’s tired of this whole thing. Like he already knows what’s going to come, but he’s got to go through the motions anyway. “I don’t suppose you’ve got anything to say to that?”  
Tweek cranes his neck so he can see past Stotch’s head, with its awful, tufty haircut. _Bet he cuts that himself,_ Craig says, and Tweek can’t help but smile, just a tiny bit. Lucky for him, Mr Mackey’s attention is all on Clyde, as he slowly shakes his head.  
“All right,” Mackey suddenly says, “I think we’re all getting a little sick of this whole no-talking act of yours, m’kay? Now, we can’t resolve this vendetta you boys have got going on, if nobody’s willing to take the first step and start forgiving each other.”  
_Clyde’s still in shock from watching me die, you bastard!_  
Craig yells that so loud, Tweek jumps in his seat, almost surprised that nobody else in here seems to have heard. He cautiously looks over his shoulder, and his eyes widen at what he sees. Craig seems to be too agitated to hold himself together, to remember the _idea_ of himself as a boy with arms and legs and a head. He sort of flickers from one movement to the next. Goes from pointing a shaking finger at Mackey to shoving his fingers up under his hat, to hugging himself, doubled-over and growling.  
Tweek keeps trying to catch his eye, to shake his head just enough for Craig to see. But it’s like the temperature’s dropping in the room, or is it just Tweek who’s getting colder? He’s freezing now, his teeth are about to start clattering, as Craig’s anger sucks all the warmth out of his body.  
“Leo’s getting two weeks’ detention,” Mackey is saying, but Tweek is shaking so hard now that it’s hard to keep track of anything else. “Which is the same as Eric and Kenny are getting. But as for you two – ”  
“You should go easy on Leo,” Clyde suddenly says, talking over Mr Mackey. “He’s having a tough time at home.” Tweek, who’s got so used to Clyde never speaking at all, almost falls off his chair in shock. His voice is all rough and dry, like he hasn’t used it in ages. “His dad’s cheating on his mom with a man,” Clyde goes on, and his face is still perfectly blank – eerily, it reminds Tweek a lot of Craig. “I saw them at the mall last week.”  
Leo Stotch suddenly stands up – so abruptly that he knocks his chair over. “That, that ain’t _true,_ ” he yells, hands balling into fists at his sides, as he rounds on Clyde. Looking so childlike, and so _hurt,_ that Tweek suddenly feels sorry for him. “You’re lyin’! Admit it, you’re lyin’!”  
But Clyde seems to be done with talking, for now. He doesn’t even bother shaking his head – he just looks Stotch right in the eye. Their stalemate lasts for less than five seconds before Stotch breaks eye-contact and runs out of the room, sobbing loudly.  
When Tweek can finally muster up the guts to look at Mr Mackey, the councillor has got both elbows propped on the desk, and is resting his head in his hands. “Clyde,” he says, indistinctly, “When I asked you to talk, that wasn’t quite what I had in mind, m’kay?”  
_Up yours, Mackie,_ Craig says, from right behind Tweek’s chair. He can see Craig’s left arm, all of a sudden, as it shoots past his face. Flipping Mr Mackie off again, of course.  
“You two get on out of here, now.” Mr Mackie says, raising his head, when Clyde fails to respond. “I know you weren’t the instigators of this, this _incident,_ and I know you’ve both been having a hard time. So just keep your noses out of trouble from now on, m’kay?”

When Tweek stumbles out into the hallway, backpack dangling from one shoulder, he’s so relieved that he can barely walk straight. Giggling like a little kid, rubbing his arms to try and get some circulation back into them. Whatever Craig did when he got upset in there, Tweek can tell he’s not fully recovered from it, but that doesn’t matter. The important thing is, he and Clyde aren’t getting punished at all. Mr Mackey sent them out with instructions to get back to class, and for Clyde to go see the nurse again if he starts getting headaches or double vision. McCormick actually managed to concuss _himself_ when he head-butted Clyde, which is kind of funny if you think about it, so he’s been sent home. Clyde seems to be fine, though. Even the swelling in Tweek’s left hand is going down, and his teeth are clattering a lot less. The only worrying thing is that Craig seems to have… withdrawn. But Tweek can’t very well call his name, not when Clyde’s walking right next to him. He bends over instead, blows on his cold hands.  
Suddenly, something lands on his shoulders. Tweek jerks upright, grabbing for it when it starts to slide off. It’s Clyde’s jacket, he realises – the one that only members of the football team get to wear. The one that’s got your number on the sleeve and your name across the back.  
“Uh,” Tweek says, intelligently. “Thanks?”  
Clyde just shrugs, but he smiles too, just a little bit. Then, he walks past Tweek, towards the door to the courtyard, which they’ll have to cross to get to their classroom. That's right; they’re supposed to have maths next.  
“Hey, wait up!” Tweek quickly slides his arms through the sleeves and takes off after Clyde, running to catch up.  
Maths is in full swing when Clyde opens the door, and Tweek peers inside under his arm. There are equations covering half the board already, but nobody’s paying attention to _those_ anymore. McCormick isn’t at his desk – no surprise there – but neither is Stotch. Cartman’s in his usual spot, though, and gives Tweek a poisonous glare as he slips inside, still wearing Clyde’s jacket.  
“Looks like _someone_ got a new girlfriend,” Cartman coos, and up at the teacher’s desk, Mrs Moore turns so pale with anger that Tweek takes two steps back – and he’s not even the one in trouble!  
“Out,” Mrs Moore says, pointing at the door. “That means now, Eric,” she adds, when Cartman takes his time, packing up his books with insolent slowness. Some of the other students have had enough, too, it seems – it’s impossible to work out who’s saying what in the sudden din, but even Broflofski and Marsh seem to be yelling at Cartman now, and those guys are supposed to be the fat boy’s friends.  
“He was freezing.”  
A hush falls over the classroom as everyone, even Cartman, turns their head to stare at Clyde. He just smiles and shrugs in response, but he looks a little more… _alive,_ all of a sudden. His voice still sounds all creaky, but it sounds warm, too – like it did before Craig died.  
Bebe Stevens suddenly stands up, knocking pens and erasers on the floor without even noticing. She practically runs up to Clyde between the desks, and kisses him right on the mouth. Someone hoots, someone else whistles. Jimmy’s laughing, giddy with relief, while Token is shaking his head and smiling. Clyde’s pulling Bebe closer and kissing her back, like he’s just remembered how kissing works. Tweek, who’s never kissed anyone at all, can feel his cheeks starting to heat up.  
“All right, all right, settle down!” Mrs Moore doesn’t really sound all that mad, though. “Eric, you’re going straight to the councillor’s office, you hear me?”  
Cartman doesn’t answer – he just gives Tweek a shove on his way out, so he stumbles and has to catch himself on Wendy Testaburger’s desk. It’s pretty clear Cartman hasn’t forgotten that punch to the head.  
_Xanax and Anfranil,_ Tweek tells himself, as he hurries towards his seat in the back. His prescriptions are still valid; if he just takes an Anfranil now to settle the worst of his nerves, he can persuade Dad to drive him to the pharmacy later to pick up another…  
Tweek stops dead when he sees his desk, because it’s literally covered in sweets. Candy bars, bags of skittles and M&M’s; there are even a few packets of potato-chips. Is this some kind of prank? Or maybe this stuff was meant to be for Clyde? He looks around, but Clyde and Bebe have sat back down now, and pretty much everyone is looking over at Tweek – and smiling.  
“Uh,” Tweek says, and pulls his chair out. Blushing like crazy now, he starts shoving the stuff into his backpack – only to realise he should’ve taken his notebook out first, so then he dislodges a bag of Reese’s Pieces and drops it on the floor, along with a Snickers and a Three Musketeers bar. Nobody’s laughing at him being a spaz, though. The only sound is Mrs Moore talking, getting the lesson going again.  
From the seat next to his, Jimmy reaches out, tapping his arm. Tweek almost falls off his seat when he sees what Jimmy’s holding out – it’s his tube of Xanax, with a piece of lined notebook paper wrapped around it. _These rolled over to where I was sitting,_ the note says, in Jimmy’s rounded, cheerful handwriting. He’s drawn a smiley face on the note, too.  
Tweek closes his eyes, and lets out a deep, relieved breath. Everything’s going to be okay now – he’s still got water in his bag, so he can take one right away. He can even eat one of the candy-bars after class, to make double sure he won’t get an ulcer. It’s just that… Craig’s gone.


	3. Tweak Bros – Sometimes Fresh

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like Tweek's dad would constantly be trying to come up with new gimmicks to make their shop more popular, since he'd always be worrying about the big coffee chains breathing down his neck. So Mr Tweak has decided to learn some instagrammable latte art skills from youtube, and it would look a little something like this: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Thh7NFG1IYc
> 
> Oh, and I based Craig being left-handed on the opening of the second Pandemic episode, where he's writing a letter to his parents. Even though he used a screw-driver with his right hand in another episode, he was pointing with his left hand in the same scene. (Jesus, how much brain power have I devoted to this?) So Craig being a leftie is totally canon, as far as I'm concerned.

Once school is over, Token leads the way out to the parking lot behind the gym, blipping the doors of a navy blue Prius open with a little fob that’s attached to his keychain. Because it turns out Token has a car now. The Prius looks brand new, only Token insists it’s second-hand. It’s kind of sweet, how he seems to be embarrassed about being so rich – Tweek never realised that about Token. But then, he’s barely exchanged two words with the guy until today.  
“My parents didn’t want me cycling to school anymore,” Token is saying. “I was _supposed_ to get this as a reward for doing well in my finals, but…” Token shrugs; and Tweek gets it – that feeling of having something you don’t think you’ve earned. Token probably desperately wanted a car, just not like _this._ Not because his friend got killed riding his bike.  
Jimmy and Clyde tag along too, and so does Bebe, holding Clyde’s hand. Those two are trailing behind – Bebe talking softly, and Clyde mostly nodding, though he does respond once or twice, too. “Clyde hasn’t talked at all in like, a m-month,” Jimmy says, grinning at Tweek. “N-not since, you know…” Not since Craig died. Of course.  
“You were there too, right,” Tweek asks cautiously, as Jimmy shifts both his crutches into his left hand, and pulls open the door on the passenger side.  
“Yup,” Jimmy says, as he manoeuvres himself into the shotgun seat. “I was the o-one who c-called the ambulance.” It’s such a precise process; stacking one crutch on the floor, then lifting his left leg inside, with all his weight on the remaining crutch. Tweek realises he’s staring, and grabs hold of the door instead, resting his forehead against the cool frame. His breath makes a little pocket of mist form on the glass.  
“It sucks,” Tweek says, without thinking. Surprising even himself. “It sucks how that happened.”  
“It sucks cow tits,” Jimmy agrees, and there’s a swishing sound, followed by a click, as he puts on his seatbelt. Tweek opens his eyes, steps back from the door.  
“Cow tits?” Clyde, still with an arm around Bebe’s shoulders, sounds honestly puzzled.  
“W-well, they’re big, you know,” Jimmy says, like this is a perfectly normal topic. “Cow tits. R-really big.” He holds up his hands to illustrate; they’re very far apart.  
“They’re called udders, Jimmy,” Token says, revving the engine. Bebe seems to take this as some kind of signal – she steps back, after giving Clyde one last, quick kiss – and whispers something too soft for Tweek to hear over all the car sounds. Clyde seems to have heard it, though, because he nods and even smiles a little, before he opens the door on Token’s side of the car and climbs inside.  
“Tweek,” Token says, jerking his head at the back seat, “Get in. I’ll drive you home first, okay? You saved me from getting my brains bashed in by Cartman,” he adds, when Tweek can’t seem to move, or speak. “Least you can do is let me return the favour. Okay?”  
“Okay,” Tweek says, and climbs in next to Clyde. “But could you take me to the coffee shop instead?”

Token really does drop Tweek off first; for all that Tweak Bros is on the opposite side of town from where Jimmy and Clyde live. Seems the three of them are going somewhere after this, though they don’t specify where. Tweek doesn’t mind the lack of an invitation – it’s already pretty amazing, what these three have done for him. He’s gone from having no friends at all to just being… absorbed into their little gang. Into Craig’s old gang.  
“S-see you tomorrow, Tweek,” Jimmy yells, leaning out of the window and waving crazily.  
There’s nothing for it but to raise his own arm and wave back, he even finds himself smiling a little. Here he thought his first day back in school would be actual hell on earth. But Craig’s friends are so nice. Tweek stays on the sidewalk where they dropped him off, watching the Prius until it’s just a navy-blue speck up the road.  
Dad’s behind the counter, trying to do latte art on someone’s drink, when Tweek walks in. His father’s too deep in concentration to notice him, so Tweek slips quietly up to the counter and leans over to watch him. Dad’s always claimed he doesn’t have an artistic bone in his body, and he may well be onto something there. But, he also knows people like to instagram their latte art. Mom likes to say that for every artistic bone Dad doesn’t have, there’s a businessy bone, and she’s right about that. He’s even getting kind of good at it now, Tweek concedes, as he watches Dad create a polar bear’s head and torso out of foam, and then the little paws around the edges of the cup. To make it look like the polar bear is taking a bath in the coffee.  
Just in case, Tweek waits until Dad’s finished it completely before he says hi. Which was a good call, since Dad jumps a little. “Tweek,” he says, and straightens up. “I had a call from Mackie earlier.”  
All that cautious happiness immediately starts to drain out of Tweek’s body, leaking from his pores like sweat. “It, it wasn’t like that,” he begins, but Dad cuts him off.  
“We can’t talk about this out here,” he says, transferring the cup and saucer onto a tray, where there’s already a cookie on a plate. “Watch the till for me, will you? Your mother’s got your dinner in the back,” he adds, before he carries his latest creation over to one of the women sitting at a window table. Tweek’s getting good at spotting the instagrammers now; those two obviously picked that table because the lighting’s good.  
Tweek doesn’t argue with Dad, just slips behind the counter and pulls a fresh apron out from the shelf. Mom picked the music today; he practically knows every song on her French Ladies playlist by heart, even though he doesn’t know much French at all. A new song starts – a Carla Bruni one that’s actually in English, and it reminds him a little bit of Craig. “Come, let me sing into your ear,” Carla croons, “Those dancing days are done…” Not that Craig ever was one for dancing, as far as Tweek remembers. But that sensation of Craig’s not-quite-breath on his neck, that whisper from over his shoulder…  
Where _is_ Craig, anyway? Tweek knows he didn’t imagine the whole thing – he’s got the swollen hand to prove it. He looks down on his left hand, cautiously flexes the fingers. He had to hand the icepack back in at the nurse’s office before he left with Token and the others, but it’s really not so bad anymore. Maybe he should get something from the freezer in the back room, and ice it a little more.  
“Tweek,” Mom says, coming out from the staff room, as she hugs him from behind.  
“Gah!” Tweek jumps and yells, then immediately claps a hand over his mouth. Hoping he didn’t startle the customers too much. A quick glance around Tweak Bros assures him that at least he hasn’t caused any disasters. Sure, people are staring now, but at least nobody seems to have dropped their phone into their coffee. “Sorry,” he mutters, twisting in Mom’s grip so he can look at her. Huh, at least she _did_ go for that haircut this morning. That’s good.  
“Your dinner’s in the back,” Mom tells him, as she lets go. “Your dad and I ate already, but he’s going to come talk to you in a bit, about…” She stops herself, biting her lip. “How’s your hand? Let me see.”  
Tweek holds his left hand up for inspection, and Mom seems to agree with him that it’s not too bad. “I put a cinnamon roll in a little zip-lock bag,” she says, “And I put it right on top.” It takes Tweek a second to realize that she’s talking about the freezer, and all those frozen cinnamon rolls and fruit scones they keep in there, in big old sack-sized bags from Costco. Seems Mom’s not had much energy for baking lately, and whose fault would that be? “It can be your dessert,” she adds, with a little wink. “When it’s defrosted.”  
“Thanks,” Tweek mutters, and even though there are _people_ in here, he manages to give Mom a super-speedy kiss on the cheek, before he makes his escape into the back room.  
His parents have set up a kitchen in there, complete with a proper oven and a nice wide counter for baking on. Tweek once suggested that they could change their slogan to “Tweak Bros – Sometimes Fresh”, because whether or not the baked goods come out of the freezer or get baked back here depends entirely on the sort of day his parents are having. Dad hadn’t found it particularly funny, but Mom had laughed and hugged Tweek tight.  
There’s a plate on the counter, wrapped up in tinfoil. Tweek peels it off and grins, in spite of himself – two whole Quorn fillets, huh? With a pile of something that looks like sweet potato mash; and florets of broccoli and cauliflower arranged artfully on one side. Tweek shoves the whole thing inside the microwave and sets it to two minutes. Mom’s left his favourite cup out, too, the big green tartan one that’s technically a Christmas mug. Tweek fills it up with coffee from the pot on the counter. Carries it with him to the freezer, which he opens one-handed, sipping his coffee thoughtfully. Yup, there’s that ziplock bag with a single roll in it. At least Mom doesn’t seem pissed with him, but Dad…  
The microwave dings behind him. “Ahhh!” Tweek jumps, but he’s lucky that he only spills a little bit of coffee – and not on his own hand, just on the floor. He wipes it up before he carries his dinner over to the far side of the counter, where the window is. Pulls up one of the two bar stools they keep in here, and climbs up on it so he can eat while he’s looking outside. Sure, the view is just the parking lot, not to mention most of its blocked by that big fir tree Dad keeps saying they should cut down. But sometimes a bird will run up and down the branches, or even a squirrel.  
Tweek’s already started eating, blowing on every forkful, when Dad comes in. He doesn’t say much at first, just pours himself a cup of coffee and pulls up the second bar stool, leaning against the counter when he sits down – and incidentally, blocking Tweek’s view out the window. “So,” he says, “You want to tell me what happened in school today?”  
“I made friends,” Tweek tells him, and plasters the most convincing smile in his repertoire across his face.  
“That’s not what Mr Mackey told me when he called.” Dad isn’t actually pissed, Tweek realizes. He’s just so worried that he _sounds_ pissed.  
“I didn’t _mean_ to get in a fight,” Tweek says – which, strictly speaking, is true. That was all Craig. “I just wanted to stop Clyde from getting hurt.”  
This seems to throw Dad completely for a loop. “Clyde? Roger Donovan’s kid? You’re friends with him, now?”  
“I, I think so,” Tweek says, and takes a fortifying sip of coffee. “I think Cartman and McCormick started going after _him,_ after I… you know.”  
Dad clears his throat. “Let me get this straight, Tweek. That kid, who plays football and is built like a brick shithouse – you decided it’s _your_ job to protect _him_?” Dad doesn’t look like he knows whether he should laugh or cry.  
“It, it wasn’t _like_ that, Dad,” Tweek protests. “He was too upset about losing his friend to…” Tweek throws up his hands in frustration, not sure how he can explain that feeling he’d had, back in the cafeteria. That he and Clyde Donovan were in the same boat – and not just because they were standing back-to-back, facing off against the two most evil bullies in the whole school.  
Dad swears, snapping his fingers. “Of course,” he says, “The hit-and-run.”  
“Yeah,” Tweek says, and lowers his fork. He was so hungry when he came in here, but now his appetite is all gone. He imagines Craig’s body, flying through the air. Landing all crumpled in the snow, arms and legs all twisted up, while his blood slowly dyes the snow red. He busies himself putting his improvised ice-pack back on top of his knuckles, holding it in place even though it makes his fingertips freeze and sting. Where are you, Craig, he thinks. 

Craig doesn’t reappear until after Tweek’s gone to bed with his earplugs in, and put on his favourite meditation album. As bird sounds and the shaky rumble of a didgeridoo start to play, Tweek becomes aware that someone is looking at him. Staring. He sits bolt upright with a little yelp, pulling his knees up under his chin and hugging them, on pure reflex.  
But, there he is. Sitting tailor-fashion at the foot end of Tweek’s bed, grinning sheepishly. Still wearing that stupid old hat of his.  
“Oh, so _now_ you’re back,” Tweek hears himself say. He’s not sure if he feels more relieved or annoyed.  
_I’m sorry, Tweek,_ Craig says, ducking his head so Tweek can’t see his face at all – just that stupid yellow pompon. _I should never have possessed you without asking._  
“No, I get it,” Tweek says, because he really does. “If you let Token get hit by Cartman, Jimmy would’ve joined the fight, too. And then all three of them would’ve got hurt, since Clyde would’ve tried to protect Jimmy from _both_ of those assholes at once.”  
_Tweedle-dum and Tweedle-dipshit,_ Craig agrees, cautiously leaning in a little closer.  
Tweek has to laugh a little. “What about Stotch,” he says, careful to keep his voice down. The last thing he needs is for one of his parents to walk in now, wondering who he’s talking to.  
_Tweedle-dork,_ Craig instantly replies, and though his face is back to its usual impassive expression, his eyes are shining.  
“Tweedle-dork,” Tweek mutters, and grabs his pillow so he can bury his face in it while he laughs.  
_So… You’re not mad?_  
Tweek looks up, and he can see that even though Craig is doing his best to keep his face blank and pretend the answer doesn’t matter that much, he’s desperate for Tweek to say no.  
“I’m not mad,” Tweek tells him, and Craig sags forwards with exaggerated relief, resting his palms on the duvet.  
_Thanks,_ he says, still without looking up at Tweek. _Damn, holding your breath when you don’t even need to breathe anymore? It’s the weirdest feeling,_ he adds, with a little laugh.  
“Where did you go,” Tweek asks, leaning forwards too, so he can peer into Craig’s eyes. “After Mackie’s office,” he clarifies. “When you weren’t with me anymore.”  
Just for a second, Craig flickers again. He goes from leaning forwards to sitting back, arms folded across his chest. From smiling to frowning. The change is so abrupt that Tweek jerks backwards too, choking on his breath. Damn, was that a touchy subject?  
_I don’t remember,_ Craig says, and he sounds worried. _All I know is, I think I scared you somehow? So I had to go away._ He flickers again, from sitting to standing up, and starts pacing up and down the floor. _But I don’t know what I did. I don’t remember!_  
“Craig, it’s fine,” Tweek tells him, and it’s not just because he’s desperate for Craig to stop… whatever this is. “I think what happened was, you used up a lot of my…” he bites his lip, because it sounds so damn dorky, “My energy,” he mutters. “Either when you possessed me, or right afterwards, when you got upset. Because I started feeling really cold.”  
_Ah, shit,_ Craig pushes his hands up under his knitted hat, in a weirdly familiar gesture. He did that in Mackey’s office, too – but Tweek never saw him do it while he was alive. And well, he used to watch Craig a _lot._ It’s almost funny, Craig was so inexpressive when he was alive, but now? Now he’s all over the place. _I never meant to, to hurt you or anything,_ he says, and his hands drop to his sides. _I just don’t know how this stuff works!_  
“Don’t feel bad about it,” Tweek says, a little surprised by how calm his own voice sounds. Must be the Xanax, he decides. “That just means we need to _figure out_ how it works – okay? Like…” He searches his mind for ideas. “Like how about we try automatic writing again? Only this time, we do it with a stopwatch?” Tweek holds his phone up, still playing his meditation music. He should probably switch that off, before he accidentally yanks his ear-buds out, and Craig laughs himself silly. “Then we can time how long it takes before I start getting too cold,” he adds, and gives Craig a twitchy, tremulous smile.  
_You’d do that for me,_ Craig asks, incredulous.  
“Of course,” Tweek tells him, and climbs out of bed. Busies himself pulling his notebook out of his backpack, where that enormous hoard of candy still sits, unopened save for the one Mars bar he ate with his pills earlier. He has a feeling his face would show a little too much, right now. All those times in class, when he wanted to reach out and touch that curl at the nape of Craig’s neck. That hopeless, stupid crush he’d told himself would never lead anywhere. He quickly swipes through his phone menu for the stopwatch function. Automatic writing is nothing. “Come on,” he says out loud, finally trusting himself to look over his shoulder at Craig. “Just possess me, already.”  
_You’re so weird,_ Craig replies, with a little half-smile that makes Tweek’s chest tighten up. And then he’s gone, or rather, it’s like he’s hugging Tweek from the _inside,_ and it’s a strange but also familiar feeling. Tweek barely remembers to tap the Start button. He watches the fingers of his left hand flex, and somewhere there’s a feeling of relief that he remembered to ice it a second time, after he got home. The swelling’s almost completely gone, now.  
Craig was left-handed, of course; one of only two left-handed kids in class – Kyle Broflofski being the other one. That’s why he keeps using Tweek’s left hand to write. Tweek’s lower arm has gone cold now, but it’s nothing like what happened back in Mackey’s office – this is manageable.  
Still, it’s just so weird to watch his own hand write without knowing what’s going to be on the page until it appears there. _Dear Mom and Dad,_ Craig is writing, _I’m sorry I never got to say goodbye to you. I know I was always doing stupid stuff and getting into trouble, but that didn’t mean I didn’t care about you guys…_  
Gradually, the cold starts to seep upwards, but Tweek grits his teeth and deals with it. A frozen arm is nothing compared to what Craig must be going through. It’s only when he can feel it hit his shoulder that Tweek says, “Craig? Maybe you should finish your sentence and stop now.”  
Immediately, the cold withdraws, and Tweek hurriedly presses Stop. Huh, that was just over eight minutes – maybe, with practice, they can stretch it out to ten?  
_Are you okay,_ Craig is asking him, as he suddenly appears at Tweek’s left elbow. Reaching his hand out like he wants to touch Tweek’s arm, but knows he can’t.  
“I’m fine,” Tweek assures him, pressing his left arm against his chest and trying to rub some life back into it. “Let’s try this again before I leave for school tomorrow, okay? Let’s see if we can manage _nine_ minutes then.”  
Craig laughs, shaking his head from side to side like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. _You are_ so _damn weird,_ he says – but, he sounds pretty happy about it.


	4. Don’t you know the sun is shining?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I should warn you, this chapter features some crude language. No actual F-bombs are dropped, but if you're easily offended... Well, then, I'm sorry in advance. And I hope that maybe you can enjoy this chapter anyway? (But really, given our shared fandom, it probably takes a lot to offend most of you, haha.) 
> 
> On a side note, I feel a weird fondness for Clyde's dad. He just seems like the sweetest guy on the show, whether he's trying to explain Slash to his son ("He's more like a feeling in your heart") to convincing Laura Tucker that he absolutely hasn't watched that naked video of her (but of course he has).

The next morning, McCormick’s back, concussion or no concussion. Guess you can’t serve out your detention sentence if you’re off sick from school. He ambles up to Tweek, all casual and seemingly friendly, his huge grin showing off the gap between his front teeth.  
“Morning, Tweek,” he says, stepping just a little too close to him.  
“Ngh,” Tweek replies, feeling his right hand shoot up into his hair and grab onto a whole handful.  
_Dude, you don’t need to take this shit from him,_ Craig says, materializing at Tweek’s elbow. _Just let me possess you, and I’ll wipe that grin off his face_!  
“Nnno,” Tweek grinds out, between clenched teeth. He can feel the first few tell-tale shakes of a panic attack, building up inside of him. Yesterday went so well, but then, McCormick didn’t stand quite so close to him yesterday. Not close enough to smell the tobacco on his breath.  
“What, it’s _not_ a good morning?” McCormick is all innocent confusion, as he takes one step closer to Tweek, then two. “Don’t you know the sun is shining?”  
Tweek’s run out of empty space to back up into, he realises, as his shoulders suddenly slam into the row of lockers that lines the wall. “Who cares if the sun is shining,” he almost screams. What he really wants to yell is, Stay away from me! _Xanax and Anfranil, Xanax and Anfranil. Maybe this really is an Anfranil kind of day,_ he thinks hazily, as his right hand keeps convulsively tightening on his own hair.  
Suddenly, McCormick is gone. It’s like a magic trick, as if an actual trapdoor got installed in the hallway floor while Tweek was in hospital. Tweek blinks, shakes his head – where did the bastard go?  
Oh. He’s on the floor, with Clyde Donovan’s sneaker pressing down on his Adam’s apple. “You stop that,” Clyde says, with great finality. Like there is no possible other outcome here than McCormick leaving Tweek alone, from now until forever.  
“M-m-morning, Tweek!” Jimmy suddenly appears on Tweek’s right side, acting like there’s nothing out of the ordinary going on. Like Clyde goes and stands on McCormick’s throat every day.  
“Gah! Jimmy!” Nostrils flaring, panting like a horse, Tweek stands as still as he can manage while Jimmy pulls Tweek’s hand out of his hair.  
“B-b-bald guys finish last,” Jimmy says, winking. “Even if b-blondes do have more fun!”  
“You want to do this, Donovan,” McCormick is snarling, from his position on the floor. It’s like he’s a completely different person, all of a sudden. “’Cause I can make that happen, man!”  
_He’s scared,_ Craig says, with satisfaction, and Tweek realizes he’s right.  
“No,” Clyde says, and his voice carries through the suddenly quiet corridors. “I just don’t want to deal with your shit.” Each word is one flat, heavy syllable. Maybe not talking for a month will make you weigh every word as if it were a stone.  
Then Clyde steps back; and McCormick’s on his feet in seconds – jumping up, baring his teeth like a dog. “Your mom’s blowing Hitler in hell right now,” he snarls, right in Clyde’s face, before he spins on his heel and stalks off.  
“At least _Clyde’s_ m-mom w-w-would be smart enough to spit,” Jimmy fires back, looking absurdly happy. “Isn't that how _you_ were born?”  
“You don’t wanna be late for class, Kenny,” Token yells after McCormick’s retreating back, as he throws an arm around Clyde’s shoulder. “They’ll only give you more detention!”  
McCormick’s only response is to raise his middle finger above his head as he walks away.  
_Damn, I’m feeling downright proud,_ Craig drawls, and when Tweek risks a glance in his direction, he can’t help but notice the satisfied smirk on Craig’s face. That look slowly fades, though. _Hey dude, are you okay?_  
Tweek shakes his head, as slowly as he can manage. His heart is pounding, pounding in his chest, and it’s not getting any easier to breathe.  
“Tweek.” He whips his head around as Token says his name, trying to control the shaking that’s now spread to his entire body. “Tweek, sit down, okay?” Token puts his slim, long-fingered hands on Tweek’s bony shoulders, and pushes until Tweek’s butt hits the floor. “Head between your knees,” Token’s saying, like he knows exactly what he’s doing. “Come on, Tweek. Deep breaths, okay?”  
“Ohh-kaaaayyy,” Tweek grunts, wrapping his arms around his knees. Breathing in, breathing out. He feels a sudden, almost electrical surge in his body, and realises it must be Craig. Not possessing him, but doing… something. _I’m here,_ Craig says, from somewhere inside Tweek’s body. And that helps.  
Tweek’s vaguely aware that the guys are talking over him, discussing what to do with him, probably. It’s not a debate he feels qualified to participate in. Breathing in and out is about all he can cope with, right now. The first bell rings, making a big twitch run through his body, but no-one’s asking him to move.  
He’s keeping his eyes squeezed firmly shut, but he can still tell that someone’s sat down next to him. Their hand on the small of his back is a dead giveaway. “Try to breathe so deep, you make my hand move,” they say, and Tweek gives a start when he recognizes Clyde’s voice.  
“Mm,” Tweek says, through clenched teeth. Clyde has the warmest hand; he can feel the heat going right through his flimsy shirt. Breathe out, then in, all the way down to the depth of his lungs. Pressing against Clyde’s big, square hand with nothing but his breath. The second bell has been and gone now, but Clyde isn’t leaving. Again and again, Tweek sucks that air in. Until his pulse gradually slows, and only his breathing is moving Clyde’s hand rhythmically up and down.  
Tweek finally cracks one eye open, and then the other. “Thanks,” he says, blushing as the awkwardness of the whole thing suddenly hits him.  
Clyde gives him the weirdest look. “I’m the one who should say thanks,” he says, jumping to his feet in one smooth, catlike motion. He holds his hand out, and when Tweek can only blink at it, grabs the other boy by the arms and hauls him to his feet. “Do you need to… take anything?”  
“Xanax and Anfranil,” Tweek replies, on auto-pilot. He yanks his water bottle out of his backpack, and shakes two Xanax – whoops, he’d better put one back, there – out on his palm, followed by a single, hated Anfranil. Swallows both pills in the same gulp. Clyde patiently waits for him to finish.  
“Token will explain,” Clyde tells him. “To the teacher. It’ll be fine.”  
“Because it’s Token,” Tweek agrees, shoving his water bottle back in his bag. Straight A student, class rep, impeccable record. Of course the teacher would listen to anything Token has to say. He starts walking down the deserted hallway, one tube of pills rattling in each pocket.  
“Hey, listen.” Clyde catches up with him easily, on his longer legs. “Thanks for yesterday.”  
Something stirs inside Tweek then – something like the memory of a boy who used to joke around, and even have fun sometimes. A boy who isn’t him anymore, but still… Swinging his backpack off one shoulder, Tweek pulls out that half-finished toilet roll Clyde brought him, while they were waiting outside Mr Mackey’s office. “But, you already got me this,” he says, and does his best to simper like a girl.  
“Hah!” For a second, Clyde himself looks shocked at the sound coming out of his own mouth. Then he grins, and starts laughing for real, so loud and so warm, as it echoes down the halls.  
_Thank you, thank you,_ Craig is saying, and even though Tweek can’t see him now, it’s like Craig is walking next to him. Like that shiver going through his right arm is from Craig’s arm, brushing against his.  
“You know,” Clyde says, having got his laughter under control, “When we fought those guys? It was just like having Craig back.” He keeps walking, but finally turns around when he realises Tweek’s not following him anymore. “Tweek? What is it?”  
Tweek has stopped dead in his tracks. Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, he thinks, grateful that the pills are kicking in so fast, preventing a second panic attack. He’s screwed up, though, and screwed up bad. For all that he looks like he could lift a car, there’s something very… fragile about Clyde. Telling him about Craig would be a really, really bad idea – even if Clyde actually believed him. Especially then.  
“Like I could ever be as cool as Craig,” Tweek says; which is the absolute truth, before he runs to catch up with Clyde.  
_You think I’m cool,_ Craig asks, and he sounds honestly shocked.  
Tweek is suddenly very relieved that he’s got the world’s best excuse to ignore him. 

“They’re alien comedians,” Jimmy says, leaning back against the bleachers behind him. Tweek’s noticed that the longer Jimmy’s been talking to you, the less he stutters – almost like he’s got this engine-powered voice that needs to run for a while, before it’s warm enough to work properly. Steampunk syntax. “Xanax and Anfranil, who’s a w-woman. So her jokes are all about having f-five vaginas.”  
Tweek, who just took a sip of coffee from the flask he brought to school, ends up spraying it all out through his nose. He jumps as someone slaps his back – it’s Token, shaking his head but smiling, just a little bit. “Jimmy,” he says, “Try not to kill Tweek.”  
They’ve got all the sweets Tweek got yesterday spread out on the seat between Jimmy and Tweek, and they’re sharing the loot with Bebe and Nicole, too, who are sitting on the row in front of them. Watching the football team warm up for practice, down there on the pitch. Bebe’s wearing Clyde’s jacket now, wrapping it around herself like it’s a fur coat or something. Tweek could’ve sworn he saw her sniffing the sleeves a little while ago. The two girls are on the cheerleading squad, but cheerleading practice doesn’t start for another hour. So here they are, huddled up together under a blanket Nicole brought to school, so they can keep warm even though they’re already in their mini-skirted uniforms. Black curls and blonde curls tumbling all over each other, as the two girls lean in to whisper about something, while delicately picking one M&M at a time out of the bag they’re sharing. On either side of Tweek, Token and Jimmy have gone strangely quiet. They’re not watching the pitch at all; even though they supposedly came out here to cheer Clyde on.  
_Enjoying the show?_ Tweek feels an icy little shiver run through him, as Craig appears on the bleachers right behind him and rests his arms above Tweek’s shoulders. A kind of low-level electricity seems to be running from Craig and into him, giving him a nice sort of buzzy feeling in the pit of his stomach.  
“What show? They haven’t started playing yet,” Tweek mutters, out of the corner of his mouth.  
Craig only laughs in response, leaning forwards so his face is almost right next to Tweek’s. It’s making Tweek’s skin tingle, not to mention it sets off a mild vibration in the bone of his bottom jaw. This ghost stuff, huh. It’s gonna take some getting used to. Just as well he’s on some pretty strong anxiety meds.  
Tweek slips his hand inside his backpack, grabs the notepad he bought on his way to school and the first pen he can find – a red one, of all things. Still, a pen’s a pen, and if he’s careful about it, he and Craig can actually have a conversation like this – without the rest of the group catching on.  
“I think they sound like poets,” Nicole suddenly says, turning around. Jarring Tweek out of his thoughts. “Anfranil and Xanax,” she goes on, when all three boys just look at her blankly. “Romantic poets, like Byron and Shelley.” She reaches out towards the seat that’s full of candy, only Token is quicker than her and puts a Snickers bar in her hand. Well, they were childhood sweethearts, weren’t they; for all that they’re not dating any more. So Token probably knows exactly what she likes.  
“Clearly, Xanax is a robot,” Token says, while Nicole shrugs and breaks the candy bar in half, opening the wrapper and offering the first piece to Bebe. “And Anfranil is his inventor. Who’s from France, or something,” he adds, picking up the bag of Skittles. You can see it in the set of his mouth, the hopeful upturn of his eyebrows, how hard Token is hoping that Nicole will laugh.  
_I could never work out if they’re just into each other out of habit,_ Craig muses, leaning so close that Tweek can feel the hairs on the back of his neck start to stand up. _Or if they’re like, fated to be together forever._ Just as Nicole starts to laugh, and Token’s face relaxes, Craig pulls back.  
_I have no idea,_ Tweek writes, angling the notepad so Craig can see. _I don’t understand that “love” stuff at all._ He needs to keep these notes separate from his coursework, just in case anybody recognises Craig’s handwriting in there. That’s why Tweek carefully ripped those pages out from his notebook last night, and hid them in his desk drawer. That’s why he bought this notepad from the convenience store on his way to school.  
_Probably just as well,_ Craig is saying, his voice slipping into its old, familiar nasal tone. _I’m glad Bebe and Clyde got back together, though,_ he adds, almost like he’s not talking to Tweek at all. _That’ll help him feel better._  
Tweek nods, very slightly. Clyde even answered a question in class today – _and_ he got it right.  
Suddenly, somebody’s snatched the notepad out of his hand. Tweek is so startled that he screams.  
“W-what’re you writing, Tweek,” Jimmy says, holding the pad just out of reach while Tweek desperately grabs for it.  
_Poetry,_ Craig tells him, in a desperate stage-whisper, while Jimmy passes the notepad on to Bebe. _Say it’s poetry!_  
“Poem,” Tweek mutters, feeling his whole face go bright red all at once.  
“ “I have no idea,” ” Bebe reads out loud, “ “I don’t understand that “love” stuff at all.” Is that it? I like it,” she says, and she doesn’t sound like she’s making fun at all. “It’s almost like a haiku.”  
“It’s a mood, all right,” Nicole says, taking the pad from Bebe’s hand and making a big point of passing it back to Tweek. “I’d be deeply suspicious of _anyboy_ who claims to understand “that love stuff”,” she adds, and Tweek suddenly understands exactly why Token likes her.  
“D-don’t you mean “any- _body_ ”,” Jimmy asks, but Nicole firmly shakes her head.  
“Nope,” she says, making her curls bounce as she shakes her head. “Any- _boy._ ”  
“Maybe Anfranil could be a robot-inventor who secretly dreams of becoming a poet.” They all turn to look at Token, who gives them the first real smile Tweek’s seen on his face since before Craig died. “What? It makes perfect sense. He wants to understand love, so he builds himself this robot and programs it to write metrically perfect love poems. Only they’re too perfect,” he adds, looking directly at Nicole.  
“Maybe he should build a time-machine instead,” Nicole counters, and her smile is clearly meant for Token alone. “And go back to the nineteenth century, to seduce Ada Lovelace. Then they could write each other sonnets in binary code.”  
Behind Tweek, Craig lets out a long whistle. _Well, that answers that, I guess,_ he says, and although Tweek doesn’t dare draw any more attention to himself by turning to look at Craig, he can tell that Craig’s pretty pleased with this new development.  
From the pitch down below, the coach’s whistle cuts through the silence, carves it up, and breaks the spell that seems to have fallen over Token and Nicole. Tweek yelps and jumps to his feet, then sits back down sheepishly, while Jimmy laughs good-naturedly at him and Bebe yells, “They’re starting, they’re starting!”

That evening, Clyde’s dad shows up the coffee shop. It’s half an hour until closing time, and Tweek, who’s been doing his homework at the corner table, thinks _Ugh, another customer,_ when he hears the bell ring. He just assumes it’s somebody wanting a coffee for their drive home from work, and doesn’t even look up from the stack of notes he photocopied from Token after school today. When you’re off school for almost a month, there’s a lot of catching up to do. And when you have ADHD and are running on fumes _anyway_ , it gets hard to concentrate. Especially when Craig Tucker is sitting right opposite you, doing his best to be distracting.  
_You don’t need to read all of that crap now,_ Craig is saying, wheedling like a little kid. _Can’t we, like, go somewhere?_  
Tweek shakes his head, even though his resolve is starting to buckle, after a whole day of school. He takes another sip from his Tweak Bros mug; as a concession to how late it’s getting, he’s only having a latte. Even if it is a _big_ latte.  
_Look at yourself, just piling on the coffee! If you’re too tired to study, you’re too tired, you know?_  
Tweek lowers the mug and looks at Craig over the rim. Is it just his imagination, or does Craig actually look a little bit worried? He mouths the words “I’ll be fine”, and gives Craig a quick smile. Craig rolls his eyes in response, but then he smiles, too – so fast, Tweek would have missed it altogether, if he hadn’t been paying attention.  
“Oh sure,” he hears Dad saying, “That’s him over there. Tweek!”  
“What?” He jumps at the sound of his name, then jumps again when he realises that some old guy with square glasses, a washed-out grey cardigan and faded brown slacks is striding through the coffee shop towards him. It’s like he’s wearing his own Instagram filter; a walking, talking sepia photograph.  
“So you’re Tweek,” the guy says, pulling out the chair opposite his – Tweek likes to sit with his back against the wall if he can help it. He and Mr Donovan seem to recognise each other at the same time.  
“You’re Clyde’s dad,” Tweek asks, though he already knows the answer, because Craig, who had to jump off his chair so Mr Donovan wouldn’t sit on him, is saying _Yeah, that’s him!_  
“You’re the boy who beat Craig up when you were little!” Mr Donovan is beaming and nodding. Up close, he looks so tired that Tweek almost offers him his own latte. There’s a thread sticking out from the shoulder of his cardigan, and there’s a faded old coffee stain on it, too, that he must’ve tried and failed to wash out.  
_Oh please,_ Craig snorts, and he sounds pretty offended. _Neither of us actually won that fight._  
Of course, Clyde’s dad runs that store all on his own, over at the mall. His wife died back in… was it the third grade, or fourth grade? And Tweek knows full well just how much his own parents rely on each other to keep the coffee shop going. No wonder Mr Donovan looks all worn-out.  
“I just wanted to thank you,” Mr Donovan is saying, and his eyes look alarmingly misty behind his glasses. “You’ve made such a big difference for my boy… you have no idea!”  
“They, ah, got into a fight together,” Dad is saying, leaning across the end of the counter, where they normally put the finished drinks. “I’m not sure _that’s_ very…” He shrugs, spreads his hands, “…helpful.”  
“Mr Tweak, you don’t understand,” Mr Donovan says, smiling like a freshly minted Jehovah’s Witness. “After what happened to Craig, Clyde just completely shut down. He wouldn’t talk, he would barely eat… I don’t know what you said to him, Tweek, but…”  
“I didn’t say _anything,_ ” Tweek protests, shaking his head. “I just punched Cartman in the head!”  
“Hrmph,” Dad says, pressing his fist against his mouth and turning away fast. Wait, is Dad _laughing?_  
“All I know is; you gave me my son back.” Mr Donovan is shaking his head and smiling, like Tweek’s performed some sort of miracle – when really, it was _Craig_ who helped Clyde come unstuck.  
“Clyde’s really nice,” Tweek mutters, shrugging and ducking his head.  
_Dude, you’re totally blushing,_ Craig tells him, very unhelpfully.  
“Tell you what, Tweek,” Mr Donovan says, “I know it’s not much, but I run the shoe store back at the mall. Why don’t you come on over one day and pick out a pair of sneakers, on the house?”  
“Oh, that’s not ne–” Tweek begins, but Dad cuts him off almost immediately.  
“Don’t be rude, Tweek, that’d be great! Roger, how about a coffee? On the house,” he adds, with a little wink that makes Tweek cringe.  
_Your dad’s right, you know,_ Craig says, leaning back against the window, one ghostly foot in a dark blue sneaker pressed against the glass for balance. _Don’t leave Clyde’s dad feeling like he owes you one. They’re super Catholic,_ he adds. _They’ve already got all the guilt they can eat._  
“Um, okay,” Tweek says, and forces himself to look Mr Donovan right in the eye. “Thanks. I’d like that a lot.”


	5. Hitler was a vegetarian

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When Tweek compares the Stotch/Cartman effect to an Escher painting, he's talking about this sort of thing:  
> https://www.nga.gov/features/slideshows/mc-escher-life-and-work.html#slide_23  
> I think that Tweek would like this sort of optical illusion art almost in spite of himself - that it would hurt his brain to look at it, but he'd be compelled to look anyway. 
> 
> You've probably picked up on Tweek's vegetarianism by now; it was something I tried to gradually sneak into the story, rather than hammer the reader over their head with. Since they are following Buddhist teachings, it makes sense for me that his family would be vegetarian, though I know a lot of Buddhists aren't. Also, it would be one more thing that made him different from his peers; one more thing for the bullies to pick up on and lay into him for.

Wednesday is when everything gets worse. Because Mom and Dad have gone and made “exciting plans” for them all, and those plans involve the whole family taking the bus today. Yesterday, Dad made a roundtrip, first taking Mom to Tweak Bros so she could open on her own, then dropping Tweek off at school, before driving back to the coffee shop. And Tweek just assumed, being an idiot; that this was how their mornings would be from now on. “You’ll be fine to ride the school bus now, won’t you, Tweek,” Dad had said, waving him off. Telling Mom; “Don’t worry, honey! Tweek’s got friends now!” And because Mom had looked so excited, standing there with her backpack full of ingredients for the epic dinner she’s apparently going to make them tonight, Tweek couldn’t bring himself to do anything other than nod.  
So now he’s getting on the school bus, and his parents have no idea that all the three of the friends he’s made ride to school in Token’s car. Tweek makes a beeline for an empty double seat near the back, ear-buds already plugged in. Last night, before he even knew about any of this stuff, he got the audio book of Moby Dick off Amazon. It’s one of his assignments, for American Lit – he’s supposed to have read the entire thing before Friday’s lesson. Tweek’s never been very good at finishing a book; that would involve doing things like sitting still, and concentrating, and those were never Tweek’s forte. Hence audio books. To be on the safe side, Tweek bought and downloaded Moby Dick on his laptop, then transferred it to his phone, so in case his phone breaks or gets stolen and thrown down a toilet by McCormick; he’ll have a back-up copy. Dad even agreed to copy the book file onto his external hard-drive as well; in case Tweek’s creaky old laptop suddenly goes all “Blue Screen of Death”. So _that_ should be fine.  
Pressing himself against the window, Tweek hits “Play” and closes his eyes. “Call me Ishmael,” the narrator begins, and he has a pleasant, calming old-man voice that immediately makes Tweek’s pulse slow down a little. The Xanax he had with his breakfast also helps, of course, though maybe he _should_ have taken the Anfranil, too. Because Tweek’s heart is still pounding in his chest.  
In the seat next to him, Craig slouches, fuming. _I can’t believe how stupid your parents are,_ he growls, and this isn’t exactly a setting where Tweek can shush him.  
At least the book’s not bad; for all that the sentences are old-fashioned and weird sometimes. When the main character talks about his “hypos” getting the better of him and making him want to run out in the street and knock people’s hats off; Tweek can even identify a little. He used to get those bubbling, joyful burst of energy before, when he’d suddenly have an unquenchable need to run, or laugh, or do _something,_ just _because._ One time, when his parents had taken him to a proper Buddhist temple all the way up in the Colorado Rockies; he’d even snuck off to ring the enormous gong he’d seen in the reception hall. Mom spent nearly the whole journey back telling him off for it, but to the little kid he’d been then, making that one deep toe-curling note ring through the temple halls had been worth it.  
But, that was before they moved to South Park. Before Kenny McCormick.  
_Tweek, look out,_ Craig suddenly says, pulling him out of his thoughts.  
Tweek jerks his head up, and his jaw drops when he realises that not only did Eric Cartman just get on the bus; he’s about to squeeze himself into the seat Craig has just fled from. His lips part to form a soundless “no”, but it’s too late already. Cartman’s bulk forces Tweek to squeeze himself against the wall and window, to try and make himself thinner than he already is. But, even worse than that; McCormick has just dropped into the one empty seat behind Tweek – diagonally behind him, but still – his long legs shoving their way under Tweek’s seat and deliberately kicking the soles of his shoes.  
“Good morning, Tweek,” McCormick yells, reaching out to grab the cord and yank both Tweek’s ear-buds out at once. “You’re in my seat, did you know that?”  
“Ngh,” Tweek grunts through his clenched teeth.  
“Knock it off, Kenny.” That’s Stan Marsh, the captain of the football team himself, as he takes the window-seat in front of Tweek. Even though Marsh is popular and good-looking, and doesn’t go around picking on people, there’s something… hollow about the guy that’s always stopped Tweek from liking him. This sense that Marsh will do something nice for you but not to actually _be_ nice – more like so other people will _see him_ be nice. “Come on, people are staring,” Marsh says, his hand suddenly snaking through the space between Tweek and Cartman’s heads to flick McCormick right between the eyes. McCormick just laughs and spreads his hands – “Chill, dude! Chill!” – because of course, those two are friends.  
Tweek’s starting to hyperventilate now, even though he’s doing his best to just breathe through his nose. _Xanax and Anfranil,_ and he’s even _had_ a Xanax, not long ago. When Kyle Broflofski sits down next to Marsh, it barely even registers with Tweek, until the Jewish boy asks him what he’s listening to.  
“Mmmoby D-Dick,” Tweek grinds out, wishing he had the guts to just take another Xanax right here on the bus. But no, that would be a disaster – Cartman would probably snatch the tube from his hand, and sprinkle the pills out on the bus floor. He’ll have to settle for tugging on his hair instead.  
“It’s good, isn’t it,” Broflofski is saying, and he’s smiling in a way that might almost be friendly. “Plus, Ishmael’s clearly Jewish, so it makes me feel very represented.” Is he joking? Is he waiting for Tweek to answer? Tweek opens his mouth, frantically digs around in his brain for a response.  
Just then, Cartman says, “Tweek! I need to ask you something!” And Cartman’s voice, it really carries. Pretty much everyone sitting in front of them has turned around to look, now.  
“Uh,” Tweek says, trying to squeeze himself even harder against the framework of the bus.  
_Tell him to knock it off,_ Craig is saying, his voice a whisper next to Tweek’s ear. _Come on, Tweek, that’s all you need to say. Three words. I promised I wouldn’t possess you without asking, but I can say it for you if you want! Just nod, and I’ll do it!_  
But, Tweek can’t even move. Even his hand is frozen next to his head, mid-tug.  
“Honestly, Cartman,” Broflofski begins, exasperated, but of course Cartman just talks over him: “Tweek, does your mom shave her armpits?”  
Tweek can feel his mouth slide open. It’s clearly not like Cartman is expecting a reply; he just keeps right on talking, his voice mocking and wheedling. “How about her bush, Tweek? Does your hippie mom at _least_ trim her bush?”  
Behind him, McCormick laughs, unnaturally loud. They’ve hemmed him in, Tweek realises, caught him in too close quarters to swing a punch.  
“Tweek’s parents aren’t hippies,” Broflofski corrects him, and Tweek vaguely wonders if the guy actually thinks he’s helping. “They’re Buddhists!”  
“So they’re all gonna burn in hell then,” Cartman counters quickly, “Next to _your_ Jewish ass, _and_ your bitch mom!”  
“I told you not to call her that,” Broflofski snaps, and now he sounds genuinely angry. But then, and it’s so quick that Tweek almost thinks he’s imagined it, Broflofski winks at him.  
“But your mom _is_ a bitch,” Cartman goes on, his attention all on Broflofski now; “ _And_ she’s fat!”  
“Not as fat as you,” Broflofski counters, like he’s arguing on auto-pilot. Is he actually taking the heat off Tweek on purpose?  
_Maybe Broflofski’s not such an asshole after all,_ Craig mutters faintly. He sounds… pleasantly surprised.  
McCormick suddenly kicks him again, this time right in the ankle, and Tweek has to bite his lip hard not to yelp out loud. He pulls his feet up; if he sits sideways, he can balance them on the heater that runs alongside the windows instead. It’s not easy, since Cartman takes up the space of one and a half person, but it’s just about doable. Then, he slips his ear-buds back in, and starts his audio book over from the very beginning.  
_I can do this,_ Tweek tells himself firmly. _Xanax and Anfranil. I can do this._

“You rode the school bus with _Cartman_? Jesus.” Token gives a little shudder as he shoulders his locker closed. They’re almost alone in the hallway; Jimmy and Clyde have already gone ahead of them since they’re in the chemistry lab, three corridors down. Jimmy’s fast, but he’s not _that_ fast. “Why didn’t you text me? I’d have picked you up.”  
“Uh?” Tweek blinks at him. “You would? But I don’t, um, I don’t have your number…”  
“Well that’s no help at all, is it,” Token says, pulling the latest model of iPhone out of his back pocket. “Here, if you give me your number now, I’ll text you and add you to the group chat. Then you’ll have all our numbers.”  
Is this really happening? It almost feels like some kind of cosmic reward for enduring that awful bus ride. Tweek quickly rattles off his phone number, and watches Token create a whole new contact on his iPhone, just for him.  
“Cartman’s such a waste of oxygen,” Token is saying, as he types in Tweek’s number. “He once showed up to my birthday party with a bunch of bananas wrapped up as a present.”  
“What?!” Tweek drops a textbook on the floor in shock.  
_I remember that,_ Craig exclaims – like he’s only just remembered, and is reliving how pissed he got all over again. Tweek can sense how annoyed he suddenly is, even if he’s trying to avoid looking directly at Craig while he’s talking to Token. Since, well, that might come across as a bit weird.  
“Yeah, that was the last time I ever let Cartman in my house,” Token says, and gives Tweek a weary grin. “Don’t take his shit, Tweek.”  
Easy for you to say, Tweek thinks, as he stoops to pick his book back up. But then, he has to wonder – is it really? Doesn’t being one of like, five or six black kids in this whole school mean that Token’s kind of walking around with a target painted on his back, for all that he’s so smart and super popular?  
“I never answered him, did I.” Tweek smiles cautiously up at Token. “When he asked me all that mean stuff about my mom.”  
“Good.” Token gives him a quick pat on the shoulder. “You know, your coffee shop’s kind of round the block from my house – can I pick you up there tomorrow?”  
The feeling isn’t so much a weight lifting from his shoulders, as it is a sensation of dropping down into his own body. Of releasing a breath he’s held so tight, it made Tweek feel as though his feet have been hovering half an inch above the ground. “Oh yes, oh please, if it’s really not too much trouble?! I’ll pay you back for the gas,” he adds, but that only makes Token laugh and shake his head.  
“It’s fine, Tweek. Now come on. Let’s get to class.”

“Hey Tweek,” Cartman shouts, while everyone is lining up to buy lunch. “Can you answer something for me?” Loud enough for everyone in the cafeteria to hear. On purpose, obviously, because Cartman is Cartman.  
Tweek shudders, but keeps his back turned on the fat boy. Cartman’s far enough behind him in line, with Jimmy, Token _and_ Broflofski between them; that Tweek isn’t feeling too exposed. Clyde, in front of Tweek in the lunch queue, turns around. “My dad said your parents asked us over for dinner,” he says, and he’s actually smiling. “At the coffee shop?”  
“They what?” Is that why the backpack of ingredients? Did his parents leave the car at home so they could have a drink with Clyde’s dad, too?  
“Tweek, I need to ask you something,” Cartman is yelling, horribly persistent. “It’s important!”  
_We could totally take that stupid fatass,_ Craig offers, _Want to punch him?_  
Tweek shakes his head, as firmly as he can manage. Not in here, of all places. He has no idea if Craig remembers it, the incident that sent Tweek’s life spiralling completely out of control, right here in the lunch line. Ghosts probably hang on to traumatic events from their _own_ lives, the way Craig seems to remember the car accident with perfect clarity. But there’s no telling if he knows anything about Tweek’s personal Armageddon day; for all that he played a big part in it. And Tweek’s not exactly keen to remind him.  
“But,” Tweek says, deliberately ignoring Cartman – although it’s by no means easy. “But, would you guys be _okay_ with vegetarian food?!”  
“We eat a lot of ramen,” Clyde replies. “We’re not picky.”  
“Tweek, is it true your mom dropped acid while she was pregnant?”  
A hush falls over the lunch line; all you can hear is the sound of Tweek’s cutlery clattering as it hits the floor, after slipping from his sweaty hand. So much for ignoring Cartman.  
“I’m p-p-pretty sure your mom smoked crack while she was pregnant with _you,_ ” Jimmy says, leaning over Token’s shoulder to grin innocently at the fat boy.  
There is a drawn-out snorting sound from further down the line, where Broflofski is doubled over laughing. “Nice one, Jimmy,” he snickers, slapping the counter with one hand, for all that he’s supposed to be Cartman’s friend.  
“Now, now, fellers,” Stotch is saying, his little round head with its tuft of blonde hair peeking out from behind the fat boy’s side. “I’m sure nobody’s moms were abusin’ any old thing.” What, has he been there all along?! Is he really _that_ much smaller than Cartman, that he could just disappear if he stands at the right angle next to him, like a, a damn Escher painting?!  
Cartman, meanwhile, is turning all red in the face, puffing himself up like an angry rooster. “It’s true, you know,” he yells, “Tweek’s stupid hippie parents did all sorts of drugs that messed his brain up!”  
“Aw, that’s not very nice, Eric,” Stotch is saying, while he’s patting Cartman on the arm, the way you’d pet a dog to calm it down. As if this whole stupid thing is actually _Tweek’s_ fault, and he’s concerned about Cartman’s blood pressure.  
“Ignore him, Tweek,” Token says firmly. Reaching past Jimmy, he gently puts a hand on Tweek’s shoulders, pushing him until he takes one step, then another. He’s vaguely aware of Jimmy stooping to pick up the knife and fork he dropped, and of Clyde, nudging him and saying, “You want the veggie dish, right? Right, Tweek?”  
The panic is like a living thing inside of him, a snake writhing in his chest. _Xanax and Anfranil,_ Tweek chants, silently and to himself. He forces himself to nod, to breathe. _Xanax and Anfranil._ Clyde’s paying for both of their lunches now, and Tweek knows he shouldn’t let him, but pulling his wallet out of his back pocket would take way more coordination than his shaking hands can muster up at this point in time.  
One month ago, he was standing in line, just like this. But by himself, of course – like he always was. Buying the only veggie dish on the menu, as usual. It had been pasta bake that day, with cheese, broccoli and cauliflower. It had smelled amazing, only Tweek never got to eat any. Cartman had been in front of him, paying for a beef burger, but Tweek hadn’t realised McCormick was behind him in the queue until the other boy stabbed him with a fork.  
That jab of pain as the tines dug into his side, the smirk on McCormick’s face as Tweek spun around – that had been the final drop. After all those years of relentlessly chipping away at him, with the most elaborately planned-out pranks those two could dream up, that damn fork had been the last straw.  
The lunch tray had slipped right out of Tweek’s hands, crashing against the floor, his hot lunch splattering across the linoleum as the plate shattered and Tweek finally went berserk. He’d screamed, throwing himself at McCormick, taking him by complete surprise. But he’d forgotten about Cartman. The fat boy had grabbed him from behind and dug one hand into Tweek’s hair, yanking his head back. While, with his other hand, he’d shoved the whole beef patty inside Tweek’s mouth.  
Gagging, trying to retch on pure reflex, as Cartman’s hand suddenly covered his mouth _and_ his nostrils. Struggling to spit the thing back out, only to find that he couldn’t, that he could barely even breathe.  
“Hitler was a vegetarian too, you know,” McCormick had said, way up close in his face. All casual, like Tweek’s frantic blows hadn’t hurt him at all. “So don’t you go thinking that makes you better than us.”  
While coloured spots started dancing before his eyes, Tweek had heard Cartman’s wheedling voice in his ear, “You should try eating meat, Tweek! It’s good for you!” But no, never, he’d never had meat in his life, never partaken of another living being, his parents always… his parents always said…  
Tweek had been on the verge of blacking out, when something – an arm? A fist – had sailed past his head and hit Cartman in the face with a wet crunch. Dropping to his knees on the floor, spitting all that meat out like a cat hocking up a hairball, Tweek had been only vaguely aware of what was going on above him. He’d recognised Craig’s voice though, and his scuffed-up navy-blue sneakers, at Tweek’s eye level. Craig normally never raised his voice above a bored drawl, but that day, he’d been shouting. Swooping in to save Tweek’s sorry ass like a swearing, bird-flipping knight in shining armour.  
“Tweek, c-come on,” Jimmy says, pulling him out of his thoughts even as he yanks on Tweek’s sleeve again. “Clyde’s g-got your food, and Token’s got mine, let’s go.”  
Tweek blinks. He’s still standing in front of the till, and the lady who’s taking the payments is giving him a look that tells him he’s in the way. How long has he been spacing out? Jimmy nudges him with his shoulder, and Tweek somehow gets his feet to move. He even remembers to grab a new knife and fork from the trays at the end of the counter.  
“Hitler was a vegetarian,” Tweek says, as he and Jimmy start walking away from the counter, Craig trailing silently behind them. He only realises how out of the blue it must sound when Jimmy blinks and gives him a long, searching look. _Xanax and Anfranil,_ Tweek tells himself, though he’s already decided to only take the Xanax. “I, I mean,” he falters, “It’s not like I think it makes me better than other people. Or, or anything like that.”  
“I just assumed it w-was a r-religious thing,” Jimmy says, shrugging like he’s never give Tweek’s eating habits much thought at all.  
Token and Clyde are holding two seats for them, at the end of one of the long tables. Jimmy sits down sideways on the bench next to Token, and tucks his crutches under the bench before he swings his legs over, one at a time. “Thanks,” he says to Token, who’s already taken his own lunch off the tray. Looks like he and Jimmy both went for the same thing, and Clyde, too – wait, that’s the vegetarian pasta bake! Same thing as on _that day,_ because the cafeteria doesn’t exactly offer a diverse menu. What are the odds, though? And the guys are all having it?  
“We’re going veggie with you today, Tweek,” Token says, with a nod and an efficient little smile. It’s like Token’s used to Tweek’s spazzy ways now, and has decided he won’t let them get in the way of enjoying his nice warm lunch.  
“It looked good,” Clyde says, shrugging as he pats the empty seat next to him. Neither he nor Token has started eating yet. For some reason, that makes Tweek weirdly happy.  
“Thanks,” he mutters, slipping onto the bench next to Clyde. “I’ll pay you back, okay?”  
“It’s not gonna break the bank,” Clyde says, shrugging. “You atheists gonna say Grace with me, or what?”  
“Sure, why not,” Token says, linking hands with Jimmy and Clyde, and Tweek freezes up for a second, until he realises that Clyde and Jimmy are both waiting for him to take their other hand.  
“Uh,” Tweek says, frantically trying to remember how people do this on TV.  
“Graaaace,” Token, Clyde and Jimmy chant, in perfect sync, before they let go of each other’s hands and start laughing.  
_How childish can you get,_ Craig mutters, and even though Tweek can’t see him right now, his voice is coming from the empty space next to him on the bench. For all that he’s saying that, though, Tweek gets the feeling Craig wouldn’t have minded joining in.  
“What, you thought Clyde was actually going to say a prayer?” Token raises one eyebrow, before he takes a big mouthful of pasta.  
Tweek just ducks his head and nods, before he breaks off a forkful for himself and blows on it. Craig _did_ say, just yesterday, how Clyde and his dad are all religious and stuff.  
“I think God cares more about people starting wars in His name, that whether or not they actually say grace,” Clyde says, while he’s still chewing, and earning himself a smack in the arm from Token.  
“I h-have it on p-pretty good authority that God s-smites people for talking with their m-mouth full,” Jimmy says, making Clyde snort and choke on his food.  
Tweek shuts up and eats his pasta bake. Bite by bite. It’s still like they’re trying a little bit too hard to be happy – but they’re trying now, all of them. At least that’s something. 

“Excuse me, can I have a large hot chocolate, please?” That voice makes Tweek freeze up. If Stotch is here at Tweak Bros, then surely his friends – But no. Thank God, or Buddha, or Ganesh – Tweek’s not feeling particularly picky. Because Leo Stotch is by all himself, he sees that as soon as he’s conquered his initial burst of panic and turned around. “To have here, please,” Stotch adds, with that bright smile of his.  
“Gah,” Tweek says, and fights for control of his nerves. _Xanax and Anfranil,_ he thinks, forcing his breathing to slow down. “Ohh-kay.” He rattles off the price, and rings it up on the till. “W-would you like anything to eat with that?”  
_What’s that little creep doing here,_ Craig grouses, materialising next to Tweek with his arms crossed.  
“Oh gosh, no thank you,” Stotch says, “But why don’t you make yourself a drink too, and come join me?” Like Tweek’s some kind of, some kind of cocktail bar hostess or something!  
_Okay, now he’s starting to piss me off,_ Craig growls, and just for a second, he flickers from Tweek’s right side to his left. From having his arms crossed to having his hands jammed into his pockets.  
Tweek chokes down panic. The last thing he needs is for Craig to get too angry to contain himself. Not in _here._ “All right,” he says – and on pure spite, he rings up a large cappuccino for himself on the till. Stotch doesn’t even blink at being charged for a second drink – seems that was his intention all along, as he ambles happily over to the window seat he’s snagged by dumping his school bag on it. The guy’s even humming to himself.  
“I can do it if you’re with me,” Tweek whispers to Craig, and is rewarded with a small electric pulse that runs through his shoulders. Craig, suddenly behind him, must have put his hands on them.  
_Fine,_ Craig says. _But first sign of trouble, I’m possessing you and punching his lights out._  
“Not in _here,_ ” Tweek whispers back, horrified.  
_Fair enough. I’ll drag him out the door and round the building first._  
Tweek sighs, knowing this is as far as Craig is willing to stretch. He opens the door to the staff area and sticks his head inside. “Dad,” he calls out quietly. “Can you cover for me in a couple minutes?”  
“Uh, sure,” Dad says, putting down his copy of How to Grow Your Business, and grabbing a cardboard cup holder to use as a bookmark. Looks like he’s about to finish his dinner, anyway. Over by the counter they normally bake on, Mom is cooking up a storm. Chopping vegetables, rinsing lentils in the sink, laying down pasta sheets in that huge baking dish she somehow fit into her backpack. She’s way too busy to mind the till, but the shop’s quiet, anyway.  
Hands shaking, Tweek fills up a mug with water from the tap, and crouches down behind the counter for a second so none of the customers will see him taking a Xanax. Then, he makes the drinks, though he doesn’t bother with any fancy latte art. Even though he’s supposed to be practicing it. His hands are just shaking too badly. It’s all he can do to carry their drinks over to Stotch’s table after Dad’s come out, without spilling too much onto the tray. Stotch is actually reading a paperback of Moby Dick, and seems too absorbed in it to notice that Tweek’s come over.  
_Just remember,_ Craig says ominously. _First sign of trouble._  
“Thanks,” Tweek whispers, and draws a deep breath. “Hey Leo,” he says, putting the tray down on the table. He may as well try to be nice. “How’s the book?”  
Stotch looks up and smiles, folding the page over instead of slipping a bookmark in – ugh, it bugs Tweek something fierce when people do that. He even tries to keep from creasing the spine when he reads a paperback; it just doesn’t seem right. “It’s pretty interestin’,” Stotch says, tucking the book inside his backpack. “Have you started it yet?  
“Only this morning.” Tweek knows that pill will kick in soon. It’s not like he even needs to be nervous about this. “So,” he says, pulling out the other chair, “What is it you want to talk to me about?”  
Stotch just smiles, and takes a big sip of his hot chocolate. “Hey, this is really good! I oughtta come here more often!”  
_Please don’t,_ Craig says, and Tweek has to pretend to cough to hide the sudden flash of a smile under his hand.  
“Well, everybody’s got their cross to bear, right?” Stotch lowers the mug, wraps his fingers around it. “Kenny’s parents, for instance,” he goes on, “Have been hittin’ all their kids since they were babies, though I guess Kevin’s getting’ big enough now that their dad’s afraid of hittin’ him. So he’ll just punch up Kenny instead. That boy’s had his nose broke more often than most kids catch a cold!” Stotch actually laughs a little, shaking his head like he’s thinking, isn’t that the darndest thing.  
“Okay,” Tweek says, as he takes a sip of his cappuccino. As if Stotch could ever convince him to feel sorry for McCormick!  
“And when I was nine years old,” Stotch says, “My mom had a psychotic episode, and tried to drown me in the family car.”  
Tweek chokes on his coffee. “What,” he splutters.  
_Bullshit,_ Craig says, leaning against the table and glaring at Stotch – as if that would actually work, on somebody who can’t even see him. _Tweek, you don’t have to stay and listen to this._  
“Because she’d just found out,” Stotch goes on, “That my dad was havin’ an affair with another man. So she was gonna hang herself, only she didn’t want me growin’ up without a mother.”  
“Jesus Christ,” Tweek whispers, carefully lowering his cup. He suddenly remembers Stotch in the councillor’s office, crying like a child. Begging Clyde to say it had all been a lie.  
“Aw, let’s not go takin’ His name in vain, now,” Stotch chides him gently, with the sunny smile of someone who really does believe, wholeheartedly, that Jesus loves him and will always have his back.  
_Sanctimonious prick,_ Craig mutters into Tweek’s left ear, and Tweek has to fight his impulse to turn around and shush him.  
“No wonder it freaked you out,” he says, “When Clyde…”  
“Yeah.” Stotch draws a deep breath, and then suddenly, that sunny smile is back on his face. “So anyway…”  
_This is why he creeps me out,_ Craig yells, right into Tweek’s ear. Loud enough to make him flinch. _This shit, right here!_  
“The person who helped me get through all that, was Kenny. I guess what I’m tryin’ to say is, he really is a much nicer guy than anybody’ll give ‘im credit for.”  
“Really,” Tweek says, and he can feel himself starting to grow cold all over. Is Craig possessing him again, or is this just white-hot rage? “So when your friend _Kenny_ shoved my head inside a toilet bowl that still had _shit_ in it, and _flushed_ the damn thing, was he really just being _nice_?!”  
“Ah,” Stotch says, and blinks. “I didn’t know about –”  
“I got a bacterial infection in my eye,” Tweek snarls, leaning closer to Stotch. “I had to take antibiotic eyedrops _and_ pills, that were so strong I dry-heaved every time I swallowed one!” It’s an effort to keep his voice down, so the rest of the customers won’t hear. “Two weeks of wearing an eye-patch to school and getting called a stupid pirate, because my eye was so sensitive to light. And it all cost my parents a fortune!”  
_Shit, dude,_ Craig says, in the silence that follows. _I remember that eye patch._  
“W-well,” Stotch says, when it’s clear that Tweek’s said his piece. “Kenny threw a ninja star in _my_ eye once, and _we’re_ still friends!” He brings his hand up and, to Tweek’s horror, proceeds to tap his own left eye with his fingernail. It makes a soft, clicking sound. “This is a fake, you know?”  
“You lost your eye because of that guy,” Tweek says, as a strange calm settles over him. “And you’re still friends with him? That’s your business. But there is no way in hell you can make me feel sorry for him, if that’s what you’re trying to do.”  
“I’m just tryin’ to make you _understand,_ ” Stotch says, and Tweek feels a weird, childish satisfaction when he realises that the guy is actually starting to get annoyed. He raises his mug, for another fortifying sip of his hot chocolate. “If you two could just sit down together, and _talk through_ your differences –”  
Just the thought of sitting down opposite McCormick over a cup of coffee… Tweek shudders. It would be hilarious, if it weren’t so terrifying.  
_Stotch doesn’t know what he’s talking about,_ Craig says, and suddenly appears right behind Stotch’s seat. Points his left hand at the smaller boy’s temple, like a gun, blue flames suddenly flickering at his fingertips. _If anybody’s crazy here, it’s him. Not you. You know that, right Tweek?_  
Those words set off a chain reaction in Tweek’s mind – Craig had said something very much like that, the day it all went wrong. That day, when Craig had come to his rescue in the cafeteria, saved him from eating meat. The day Tweek almost killed himself anyway.  
Why had Craig even done it? Presumably because that was just the sort of thing Craig did with his life; because he’d been a good person, no matter how hard he’d used to pretend otherwise. But, when Craig punched Cartman for him, there had been no chance to _ask_ him why; not when it gave Tweek such a perfect opening to run. To get out, first scrambling on all fours, then on two legs, like evolution all sped up. Pelting out of the cafeteria, leaving the doors swinging behind him, and through the first door he found that wasn’t locked. Run up the stairs, panting and heaving, until he found himself up on the school roof. Up where the air-conditioning vents spat out their grey steam. They were hot to the touch, but not hot enough to burn. So Tweek had let himself slide down the side of the closest one, propping his back up against the warm metal. Digging through his mouth with two fingers, in case he still had any more bits of the meat in there, and finding nothing but his own saliva.  
And then there had been that sound; a sound that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. That slow, agonizing creak as someone else pushed the door to the roof open.  
“Tweek, my man,” McCormick had said, and his tone had been so _jolly_ that Tweek had started whimpering from fear. Covering his mouth with his hand; then biting down hard on the soft flesh of his palm, to stop the whimpers from getting any louder. “Tweek Tweak! I know you’re up here, Tweek Tweak,” McCormick had continued, making Tweek’s name sound like some kind of kiddie birdcall, like “hoot-hoot” or “chirp-chirp”. That hateful sing-song voice, coming closer and closer. “You wanna know _how_ I know, Tweek Tweak? ‘Cause I can see your foot!”  
Shit! Tweek hadn’t realised, when he threw himself down behind one of the ventilators; that his left leg was sticking out. He’d gasped and yanked it back – too late, always too late! Suddenly, he’d heard his classmate picking up the pace, almost running towards him across the roof.  
“Found you!” McCormick, peeking round the side of the air vent, had smiled wide enough that Tweek’s heart almost stopped, right there and then. He’d dropped down into a squat, all casually graceful; and grabbed Tweek’s chin between two fingers. “While you still walk this earth, my boy, there isn’t anywhere you can hide from me. Tweek Tweak,” he’d added, almost affectionately.  
His name had been one of the first things McCormick had started on him for. Back in the third grade; when Tweek had first been enrolled at the old elementary school. How tall that yellow brick building had loomed, until it had felt like it could block out the sun itself; block out all the happiness in the world – but really, it had been McCormick all along. From teasing him about his name to setting up Tweek’s fight with Craig in the playground, McCormick had always been the one pulling the strings. Tweek had tried and _tried_ to just keep his head down and hope he’d get sick of this whole thing eventually. But it had been _years,_ and he was suddenly exhausted. That brief flare of rage he’d had, back in the cafeteria, had taken so much more out of Tweek than he’d first realised. He hadn’t even had the energy to twist his chin out of McCormick’s grip.  
“Please,” Tweek had whispered, “Can’t you just leave me alone?”  
For a second, McCormick had actually appeared to be thinking this over. “Get up,” he’d suddenly said, “There’s something I want to show you.” With McCormick’s hand between his shoulder blades to guide him, Tweek had obeyed. The two of them had walked forwards, Tweek only swaying a little bit on his feet, as he allowed McCormick to lead him all the way up to the edge of the roof.  
“Look at that,” McCormick had said, pointing. “Don’t the cars look small from up here?”  
Tweek had swallowed, before nodding. They had been standing right above the teachers’ parking lot, and all their cars, neatly lined up, had reminded him of those little square crayon blocks he’d had as a child. All mixed up in the box; since nobody had decided to colour-code their parking efforts, but that had fit with how Tweek used to keep his crayons, too. He’d never been very good at organising his things.  
“You could just… take another step or two,” McCormick had said, very casually. “ _If_ you want this to be over, I mean.”  
“Would you really leave me alone then,” Tweek had asked, voice cracking, past his breaking point.  
“Well, shit, man,” McCormick had said, stepping back and spreading his arms wide in a “what-can-you-do” gesture, “I might come piss on your gravestone now and then, if you Buddha freaks even get gravestones, but… I can’t very well come after you when you’re _dead,_ you know? So you’ll be safe then.”  
The ground had _pulled_ at him, and McCormick had laughed, like he knew he’d finally won.  
Tweek shakes his head, wrenching his mind back into the present. To the smell of freshly roasted coffee, the clink of loose change in his pocket, the neck strap of his apron rubbing against his skin.  
“…so you see,” Stotch is saying, “You and Kenny might actually be more similar than – ”  
“He tried to make me kill myself,” Tweek says, cutting Stotch off mid-sentence. “That day, up on the roof? That was _your friend Kenny,_ telling me to jump.”  
The silence hangs between them for a second, as the two boys stare at one another. Tweek has time to look for and find the two fait scars from when Stotch lost his eye; one little nick that divides his eyebrow neatly in half, and a second one right below the eye socket. It’s as though Kenny McCormick has literally signed his name on the other boy’s face.  
“Oh _please._ ” Suddenly, the pleasant mask has slipped right off Stotch’s face. “Everybody _knows_ you were just fakin’, that time.”  
Tweek stands up. “Get out,” he says tonelessly. Raises his shaking hand to point at the door, when Stotch does nothing but blink at him. “Get out,” he repeats, “And take all your shit with you.” With that, he turns on his heel and walks back behind the counter, too angry to even grab his cappuccino from the table.  
_I know you weren’t faking it,_ Craig is saying, but Tweek is too busy watching Stotch pack up and leave for the words to truly register with him. 

Clyde and his dad arrive just after closing time, in an ancient red Volkswagen Rabbit. Like a dog recognising his owner’s car, Craig immediately seems to know that it’s them. He pops out of nowhere, right behind Tweek, while he’s busy pulling four of the round café tables together.  
Mom’s never actually hosted a dinner at Tweak Bros before, so there’s a certain element of improvisation to the whole thing. It was her idea to spread out the big tablecloth she brought from home over four smaller tables; but Tweek can see the flaws in that plan right away. Stuff is going to sink into the holes between the tables, and they don’t even have corners! Tweek’s got the tablecloth draped over the back of a chair, he’s stuffed his pockets with table-clips and he’s wearing that roll of masking tape he found in the back of a cupboard around his wrist like a bangle. One way or the other, this tablecloth is going to stay on.  
_Clyde’s here!_  
Tweek’s so intent on his task that when Craig suddenly talks to him, he screams loud enough to bring Mom _and_ Dad out from the back room, at a run. Dad’s wearing oven mittens, and Mom’s got a kitchen towel over each shoulder, as well as a third one sticking out from the waistband of her apron.  
_Clyde’s here, Clyde’s here,_ Craig chants, like an excited little kid. Tweek turns in a full circle, so he can first glare at Craig and then apologise to his parents. _Sorry,_ Craig is saying, although he doesn’t look that repentant at all. Hands jammed into his jean pockets, rocking back and forth on his heels, Craig looks like he’s too happy to even stand still. Which makes it almost impossible to stay mad at him. Damn it.  
Tweek turns to face his worried parents. “Sorry, I’m sorry, the, the car startled me,” he says, waving his hands until the roll of tape slides right off his wrist and falls to the floor, rolling until it bumps against Dad’s foot. It’s the only excuse Tweek can think of, but even he can hear how lame it sounds, spoken out loud. "When it parked! Right there!” Nonetheless, he raises a shaking hand to point at the Rabbit through the glass, because he might as well commit to this.  
“It’s okay, son,” Dad says, picking up the tape and absently passing it to Mom, as she runs past him to unlock the door. “Just slip out back and take your pills when you’ve had something to eat, all right?”  
“Ngh, right,” Tweek mutters, because at least then his parents won’t notice that it’s only one pill. He’s been off the Anfranil all day; for all that the tube still sits in his pocket.  
“Come on in,” Mom is saying, herding Clyde and his dad inside. Clyde seems to have gone all quiet again, but he gives Tweek a quick grin. Craig appears right next to Clyde, ducking his head to peer at Clyde’s face. _It’s not the same when you can’t see me,_ he mutters, and Tweek has to swallow and look away.  
“We come bearing gifts,” Mr Donovan says, as he hands Dad a bottle of red wine, and Clyde holds out a dripping plastic bag to Mom. “Obviously, the wine’s for you to enjoy,” Mr Donovan goes on, “Since I’ll be driving home. But I can always drop you three off on the way, if you want to have it now.”  
“What’s this,” Mom says, smiling and opening the bag at arm’s length.  
“Oh, Cylde didn’t get those out of the freezer in time,” Mr Donovan explains – he probably got used to talking for his son in the past month. “He got home a little late, and I haven’t been back at all, so…”  
“Lemon bars,” Clyde says, ducking his head. He seems so shy now, all of a sudden, when faced with unfamiliar adults.  
“The famous Dutch lemon bars?” Mom’s face lights up, and she stands on her tiptoes to give Clyde a quick hug, startling the hell out of him. “You know, Clyde, I really liked your mother.” Mom goes on. “Since she was from Europe, and I know some French, I really wanted to get to know her. But I don’t think she liked me very much!” Mom says all this with the biggest smile, but from the coordinating looks of horror on both Clyde’s face _and_ his dad’s, it looks like her careless guess was right on the money.  
“Mom was weird about stuff like that,” Clyde mutters, turning bright red.  
_She wasn’t normal, is what he’s trying not to say,_ Craig drawls, standing next to Clyde with his hands on his hips.  
“Oh,” Mom says, blinking. “It’s not like I _minded!_ ” And she wouldn’t have, Tweek knows that – his mother doesn’t work that way at all. But there’s no chance for him to explain that to Clyde right now, as she herds him to the back room to get cutlery and mugs for everyone.  
Mom’s made lasagna from scratch, with aubergines, lentils and red peppers, and baked it here. And Dad’s made a huge salad in one of the baking bowls, with black olives, cherry tomatoes and what’s got to be an entire cucumber. After the first few exclamations about how good it all is – which both Clyde and his dad seem to wholeheartedly mean – and Mom teasing Dad about his struggles to open that wine bottle with the old corkscrew he found in the back of a drawer, everyone just falls silent.  
It’s so weird, sitting here eating where they normally serve other people. Sure, sometimes Tweek will do his homework in the café, but that’s different. Now, they have the whole space to themselves, and he can’t help but wonder what people walking by might think – not that there’s been very much of that. Most people in town are probably home by now.  
Out of nowhere Mom suddenly says, “Isn’t this a bit like sitting down for marriage negotiations?”  
Tweek chokes on his water, and Dad, sitting at the edge of their makeshift table, stands up so he can reach past Mom and slap Tweek on the back. God! Why did Mom have to go and say something so weird?!  
Craig, who’s been hovering at Clyde’s shoulder for most of the meal, looks over at Tweek, raising one eyebrow.  
“What, you mean for our imaginary daughters?”  
Tweek looks over at Mr Donovan in horror – that there’s actually a person in this world, _other_ than Dad, who gets Mom’s humour; he almost can’t believe it. It’s… kind of scary.  
“Oh absolutely,” Mom says, putting her cutlery down and clapping her hands together. “Our little Tweekelina is sitting in the parking lot out back, in her little red tent, embroidering napkins for her bridal chest!”  
“That’s, ah, that’s why the paper napkins,” Dad chimes in, waving a handful from the stack he put on the table.  
“Of course,” Mr Donovan nods graciously, like he’ll put up with the paper napkins just this once.  
_Tweekelina,_ Craig says, covering his mouth before he flickers out of sight.  
“Um,” Clyde says, squirming, “I’m kind of dating Bebe Stevens right now?”  
“Oh that’s all right, dear,” Mom tells him, dead serious. “You’ve still got some time for romance, Tweekelina is only fourteen.”  
Tweek cringes. “Mom, come on,” he mutters.  
“Well,” Mr Donovan straightens up, like he’s about to play a winning hand, “My Clydette is Clyde’s _twin._ So she can marry Tweek straightaway!”  
That, finally, cracks Mom up. “Clydette,” she giggles, “What a, what a sophisticated name!”  
“It sounds almost… European,” Dad says, and has a sip of wine – from a Tweak Bros mug, since that’s all they have to drink from. “Roger, are you sure I can’t tempt you with a, a cup of Merlot? I’ve got that bus times app on my phone,” he adds, grinning. "And I've got a bottle of Chardonnay in the back." Like that’s supposed to sweeten the deal.  
Mr Donovan is clearly hesitating. “I have to open the store,” he begins, but Clyde cuts him off.  
“Dad,” he says, “Just let me drive.”  
“Are you sure? It’s –”  
“It’s fine. Really.”  
“Oh, all right then,” Mr Donovan says, and Dad gives a little cheer as he jumps up from the table to get another mug, while Mom asks whether Clydette is just as big and strong as her brother.  
“Stronger!” Mr Donovan beams, “She’ll snap Tweek in half if he doesn’t treat her right! But, she’s a _little_ shorter,” he adds, holding his thumb and forefinger apart.  
Clyde looks across the makeshift table at Tweek. “Let’s never speak of this, okay,” he says, and Tweek nods fervently. 

After Clyde and his dad have helped tidy up, rinsing the dishes before they go into the industrial dishwasher and pulling all the tables apart again, all five of them pile into the Rabbit. Tweek ends up in the middle seat, sandwiched between his parents. Mr Donovan sits in front, clearly having second thoughts about placing all their lives in his son’s hands, but doing his very best not to voice them.  
“That really was a lovely meal,” Mr Donovan is saying, as Clyde very slowly and carefully turns the car around. “This may sound odd, but it makes me think of something my father in law always likes to say, if he thinks something’s really good.”  
“Dad, please don’t,” Clyde says, easing the car out on the empty road.  
“He says,” Mr Donovan pauses to snicker, “That it’s like having angels pee in your mouth! It’s a Dutch expression, you know,” he adds, presumably to try and make it sound a little less weird.  
“Christ,” Clyde mutters, reaching for the gear-stick.  
“Oh, but that makes _sense,_ ” Dad exclaims, snapping his fingers, just as Mom starts to giggle.  
“Wait, I just realised something,” Mr Donovan says, suddenly serious, “We left your daughter behind! With her, her tent and her bridal chest…” He can’t keep a straight face anymore, snickering like a little boy, while his son groans and shakes his head over the steering wheel.  
“Oh, don’t worry about that,” Dad deadpans, “We stuffed her in the trunk when you weren’t looking!”  
“Dad,” Tweek whispers, horrified – but Dad is too busy laughing at his own awful joke, along with Mom and Mr Donovan, to even notice that Tweek is talking to him.  
Finally, they’ve managed to calm themselves down. Is two bottles of wine really all it takes, for three grown-ass adults to get this stupid? At least they’re being quiet now…  
“Hell of a way to tread my future wife,” Clyde suddenly drawls, and winks at Tweek in the rear-view mirror.  
“Hah,” Dad exclaims, and that sets them all off again. Tweek rolls his eyes, but it’s hard to stay annoyed when even Clyde is laughing along.  
Even though Clyde is driving slower than he probably needs to, there aren’t that many people out on the road. So Tweek and his parents get home in no time. There’s a thin layer of frost on the ground, for all that it’s still October for a day and a bit, and it crunches under Tweek’s dirty old sneakers when he jumps out of the car.  
“Listen,” Mr Donovan suddenly rolls down the passenger window, leaning outside. “Thanks for tonight. Really. It’s been a rough few weeks, what with the Tuckers’ boy, so… So this was exactly what we needed,” he finishes, nudging Clyde’s arm. “Wasn’t it, Clyde?”  
“Yeah,” Clyde says, and smiles. “Thanks for having us. Tweek,” he adds, “I’ll tell my fake sister you said hi!”  
They stay in the driveway to wave the Rabbit off – Dad with the mostly empty backpack on one shoulder, Mom with one arm around Tweek, hugging him like a teddy bear. “It’s so good to have you back,” she mutters, out of nowhere, and gives him a kiss on the forehead.  
“Mm,” Tweek says, nuzzling close to her, as Craig materializes on his other side.  
Your _fake sister’s still in Mr Donovan’s trunk,_ he drawls, and Tweek buries his face in Mom’s coat, giggling like an idiot.


	6. I trust you more than I trust myself

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are hundreds of fan arts of Craig with a camera out there. Maybe even thousands. So him being the photographer for the school paper just kind of made sense to me. I imagine Jimmy being all serious when they all sit down to plan the new edition, while Craig's there with his legs on the table.
> 
> Another head-cannon of mine? Clyde being on every school sports team that agrees to take him. That's where he feels he achieves the most. Well, except for baseball, obviously - we know how much these guys all hate baseball!

Token shows up right on time, sliding the Prius into place right in front of the Tweak Bros entrance. “Morning, Tweek,” he says, stretching across the gear stick to pop open the door on the passenger side. “I’ll have to ask you to move for Jimmy, though,” he adds, sounding almost apologetic. “We’re picking him up next.”  
“You think I’d mind?!” Tweek so horrified, he almost drops the takeout cup he brought Token right onto the passenger seat. “Here, ah, this is for you! Pumpkin latte!” As per Dad’s instructions, he’s very careful not to call it a pumpkin _spice_ latte; Starbucks owns the copyright for that name, just like they do for “frappe”. The last thing their family needs is a lawsuit.  
“Thanks!” Token looks so surprised that Tweek feels a little guilty. Is Token always doing things like this for people, and not expecting anything in return? Maybe he feels that, because he’s rich and handsome and has his own car, he’s got to pay all that off somehow? “This is good,” Token says, and sounds a little surprised. “I don’t usually drink a lot of coffee, but…”  
Tweek knows that very well – he asked Craig last night, after all, about if and how Token likes his coffee. And Craig had replied; _Just do your best not to make it taste of coffee at all,_ with a sly little grin. That’s why Tweek made Token’s coffee with just a single shot of espresso, and way more whipped cream than he’s technically allowed to. Win-win, really; since that meant Tweek got to put _three_ shots into his own drink.  
Riding in the Prius is amazing, especially if you compare it to last night’s ride in the Rabbit. It has a cup-holder, so Token can drive safely while enjoying his pumpkin latte. And there’s heating cables hidden in the two front seats, so Tweek’s whole body’s feeling nice and toasty by the time they pull up in the Valmers’ driveway. Tweek’s never been to Jimmy’s house, but it turns out he lives just a few doors down from Clyde. So Clyde’s there, too, wearing his football jacket that it’s probably getting too cold for, stomping and blowing on his hands to keep warm. Meanwhile, Jimmy stands really still, like he’s conserving his energy for the day ahead.  
“How’s your sister, Tweek,” Clyde asks, as Tweek hops out of the car with his backpack and his empty cup, to make space for Jimmy.  
“You tell me,” Tweek fires back, before he runs over to the row of rolling bins and shoves his cup into the first one.  
“T-Tweek has a sister,” Jimmy exclaims, so shocked that Tweek and Clyde both start laughing.  
“How come you never told us, Tweek?” Token sounds confused and a little hurt.  
“Relax,” Clyde says, “She’s only imaginary. Tweek, you sit behind Token, okay? Your legs are shorter.”  
“It’s, ah, it’s a long story,” Tweek says, climbing into the back seat. He immediately gets why Clyde doesn’t want to sit behind Token – he’s got the driver’s seat pushed so far back, Clyde would’ve had his knees under his chin if he sat there. Even before he’s buckled his seat belt, Craig shows up in the middle seat, looking very solid all of a sudden – probably since he’s surrounded by all his friends at once. Tweek only hopes the others think that smile on his face comes from joking around with Clyde. “But I definitely don’t have a sister. And Clyde’s definitely not gonna marry her,” he adds, feeling brave enough to stretch past Craig and give Clyde’s arm a very small nudge.  
Clyde’s laughter even drowns out the music from the radio. “You, you had to be there,” Clyde manages to choke out, wiping his eyes, while Token pulls the Prius back onto the road. So much for never, ever mentioning that stuff again. In the rear-view mirror, Tweek can see Token raising a single eyebrow.  
_Token hates being left out,_ Craig says, grinning over at Tweek.  
“I f-f-feel s-so left out,” Jimmy says, but by now, even Tweek can tell that he doesn’t mean it. “H-hey, Tweek? I d-don’t suppose _you_ know how to develop film?”  
It’s like he’s pulled the plug on all the laughter in the world. That big grin immediately disappears from Clyde’s face, and Token’s shoulders stiffen. The only sound in the car is from the radio now, some talk-show host saying, “…and because it’s Halloween tonight, how about some Finnish death metal to really –”  
“No thanks,” Token says, his hand snaking out to turn the radio off completely. “Since the Photo Dojo closed down last year, he literally can’t even pay someone to do it,” he goes on, and _presumably_ he’s talking about developing this film Jimmy mentioned. Tweek has no idea, sometimes – it’s like these three have their own language, complete with code-words and shortcuts, developed from all their years of hanging out together.  
Craig, of course, is fluent in this language, too. _Say yes,_ he begs, any trace of his usual indifferent drawl completely gone. _I think I know what this is about!_ He sounds so desperate, so… hungry, that there is no way Tweek can refuse. _Please, Tweek!_  
“Uh, maybe?” Tweek hates lying to them, but if it’s that important to Craig, of course he’ll lie. For Craig’s sake, lying is nothing. “I, ah, it’s been a while since I…”  
“Are you s-s-serious?!” Jimmy’s twisted round in his seat to face him, eyes lighting up with what looks very much like hope. “The school p-paper’s due at the p-printers’ t-t-tomorrow, and I really w-wanted to include Craig’s last pictures in it. W-we were on the school paper together,” he adds, by way of an explanation. “I always used to c-call him a pretentious asshole, b-b-because he insisted on shooting everything on f-film.”  
_There’s nothing wrong with doing things properly,_ Craig says, indignant, spreading his arms. One goes right through Tweek’s chest, giving him a brief shock of electricity, and the other goes through Clyde’s, making him frown and shift closer to the window. _Sorry,_ Craig adds, looking suddenly embarrassed.  
“The lens got t-totalled in the accident. On Craig’s c-camera, I mean. B-but there w-w-was still a roll of film in there, so I… I t-took it. It’s n-n-not like it was evidence,” Jimmy adds, almost defensively.  
_I’ll help,_ Craig promises eagerly. _I’ll tell you exactly what to do!_  
Tweek can’t help but wonder if this is one of those final requests you see in the movies. If Craig will disappear once the pictures have been developed. He doesn’t _want_ Craig to disappear. But, if it really means that much, to Craig _and_ to Jimmy… “I’ll do my best,” he says, and bites his lip. “I mean, my hands kind of shake, and, and it’s been a long time since I did it, but I’ll try! Okay?”  
“Okay,” Jimmy says, reaching back – and right through Craig, who immediately disappears – to muss Tweek’s hair. “Th-thanks, Tweek.”

It turns out first period has been cancelled, in favour of a school-wide assembly in the auditorium. Tweek’s not about to complain, since it gets him out of biology; which he’s always hated with a passion. Bebe and Nicole ambush the four of them in the hallway, each grabbing one of Clyde’s arms and dragging him away.  
“I’m confiscating you,” Bebe says, looking sternly up at Clyde with her free hand on her hip.  
“Okay.” Clyde shrugs and grins, and allows himself to be led off with no protest whatsoever.  
“Sorry,” Nicole says, looking over her shoulder, “Bebe said she wants him to herself for once.” Her gaze seems to linger on Token, who looks like he wants to say something, but doesn’t.  
“We’re gonna get the seats behind them,” Token says, as soon as Clyde and the girls are gone.  
“Okay,” Jimmy replies, shrugging. Suddenly, it’s become a game, sneaking up behind the other three undetected. Tweek tags along, of course, but he’s also keeping an eye out for McCormick and his friends. It’s impossible to know whether Stotch has told the rest of them about his visit to Tweak Bros yesterday. But for some reason, Tweek doesn’t think so.  
For once in his life, luck is on Tweek’s side. Marsh and the others gets seats way back along the wall, while Bebe and Nicole tow Clyde along to some free seats on the fifth row. The sixth row is fairly empty, too – almost nobody wants to sit this close to the front – so they wind up with Token behind Nicole, Tweek in the middle behind Bebe, and Jimmy behind Clyde. And Craig behind Tweek, leaning over his shoulder but careful not to phase through him.  
Turns out Mr Mackey drove all the way here to tell them all what not to do on Halloween. It’s a lengthy, extensive list, which includes things like the egging of his own house – he even mentions which street it’s on! – and drinking until you need to get your stomach pumped. Since none of these things have ever applied to Tweek – who’s lining up to invite _him_ to their Halloween party? – the whole thing quickly becomes an impossibly boring drone. He starts shifting in his seat, scuffing his trainers on the floor – and that’s when he sees it. A neon pink hair tie that one of the girls must have dropped, glowing on the floor like a jewel on the sand-banks of a sunken city. Compelled by what the guy in Moby Dick would definitely have described as “hypos”, Tweek quickly bends over to scoop it up. Nichole and Bebe are sitting _right there,_ after all, and both girls happen to be wearing their hair down… It’s like this was meant to be.  
_Dude, what are you doing,_ Craig drawls. But it should be pretty obvious what Tweek is doing, and it’s not like he can answer Craig out loud, anyway.  
The two girls actually have remarkably similar hair, he decides, as he starts braiding Nicole’s hair into Bebe’s hair. Well, maybe Bebe’s curls are a little looser, while Nicole’s are tighter and bouncier. Bebe turns around almost immediately, and then Nicole, too – but Tweek works fast, and he’s already secured their braid with the pink elastic. The two girls look at him, then at each other – and then, they shrug and smile! Like this is the sort of thing they’d have done anyway, if they’d only thought of it first. Jimmy gives him a thumbs-up, and Token even takes a picture of that braid, stretching one long arm past Tweek and angling his phone so none of the teachers in front will see that he’s got it out. Only Clyde seems oblivious to what’s going on behind him, as his thumb traces a slow, endless circle on Bebe’s upper arm. The casualness of that touch, the obvious intimacy between those two, is suddenly too much for Tweek to look at. Too obvious a reminder of something he’ll never have, now. 

The school paper has its “office” in the faculty building, up on the third floor, and that’s where Jimmy takes Tweek as soon as the bell has rung for lunch. And as fast as his trembling legs will carry him up all those flights of stairs. As the editor of the school paper, he’s been entrusted with a whole bunch of keys – according to Jimmy; none of the teachers can be bothered to go test them all out. “I used to spend t-ten minutes t-t-trying all the keys in the lock,” he says, showing Tweek how a single key has been marked with a piece of red tape, “Until Craig p-pointed out that coloured tape exists. Anyway, here’s our n-newsroom, in all it’s n-n-non glory.” Jimmy goes in first, shouldering the door open after he’s unlocked it.  
Tweek quickly fumbles for a light switch by the door. It’s a class room like any other, only there aren’t that many desks – four or five pushed up against the back wall, with four ancient desktop computers on them, and four desks crammed together in the middle of the room. There’s also a big whiteboard covered with notes, photos and post-its, and a row of brown filing cabinets. People have taped stuff on the walls, too – print-outs, pictures, pages torn from notebooks, not to mention a few front pages from the paper itself that they must’ve been particularly happy with. And there’s a door marked “Darkroom” at the far end, with a handmade sign that says “IN USE” dangling from the handle. Tweek turns in a circle to take it all in, while Craig hovers at his shoulder, asking almost anxiously, _What do you think?_  
“I love it,” Tweek says, and means it with all his heart.  
Jimmy turns to look at him then, with a smile that’s almost shy. “Y-you know,” he says, “I could never r-really tell if Craig did. But he really w-w-went that extra mile for us.”  
_That idiot,_ Craig mutters, folding his arms. _It’s not like I did it all for him._  
Tweek gets it, now. How Craig’s little gang must have split in half at some point, without actually splitting up at all. How Clyde and Token went on to do sports, while Jimmy had to choose something else – and so Craig had chosen to do that with him.  
“Anyway, I d-didn’t know how to t-take the f-f-film out.” Jimmy opens one of the filing cabinets and takes out a whole camera from one of the drawers. The lens has been cracked and partly shattered, and Tweek can hear Craig’s voice, swearing in shock. It kind of seems fair to Tweek, though – that Craig’s camera should die, when Craig himself did. “That’s why I s-s-stole the whole thing,” Jimmy goes on, as he hands the camera to Tweek. How far would Craig have been thrown by that car, how high, for his camera to break the way it did?  
“I don’t think his parents would’ve had much use for it,” Tweek says. The broken camera feels so heavy in his hands. “You wanna lock me in and go for lunch? This might take me a while.” It will probably take him the entire lunch break, actually, since Tweek has no idea what he’s doing.  
“Nah, I’ll w-wait,” Jimmy says, in that casual tone Tweek has come to realise means that things are absolutely not up for debate. Probably because of all those stairs. “I’ve got g-g-granola bars we can eat,” he adds, patting his backpack.  
“Okay, thanks.” A weird calm has suddenly settled over Tweek, even though he hasn’t taken his lunchtime pill yet. Pill, singular; it’s been two whole days since he went off the Anfranil.  
“And we can d-drink the water from the t-t-tap,” Jimmy is saying, as Tweek cracks open the darkroom door and slips inside. “W-we’ve got a kettle, too – m-might even be some instant c-c-coffee left!”  
Instant coffee – ugh. “Sounds great,” Tweek replies brightly, before he pulls the door shut behind him.  
In the sudden darkness, the only light is the pale blue flames dancing on the tip of Craig’s finger, as he appears next to Tweek, pointing. _Can you see that drawer over there? That’s where I kept the cassette opener and the wheels. You’ll need to grab two wheels, since we’re using a two-wheel can._  
It all sounds like total gibberish, and Tweek can already feel his calm start to evaporate at the thought of trying to remember all this stuff. “Maybe this’ll be faster if you just possess me,” he whispers hopefully.  
_I don’t want to do that unless I have to,_ Craig mutters, ducking his head. _It’s really not that hard –_  
“Craig, please,” Tweek whispers insistently. “These are your last photos. Do you have any idea how terrified I am that I’ll ruin them? That’s way too much pressure, man.”  
For a long, long moment, Craig just looks at him. _I feel like you should be more afraid of this,_ he says, spreading his hands as if to take in his own ghostly, flickering non-body, with its blue aura and its blurry, indistinct feet. _I am. What’ll happen if that cold feeling you get spreads to your heart?_  
“You won’t let that happen,” Tweek tells him firmly. “I trust you more than I trust myself.” It’s true, he realises that even as he says it. How calm he feels, just entrusting everything to Craig.  
_Ugh, fine,_ Craig says, and disappears from view.  
Tweek instantly goes cold all over. He looks down at his own numb hands, popping the roll of film out from the bottom of the camera with practiced ease. Opening a drawer, grabbing a palm-sized metal wheel with two pins at the centre, he finds himself effortlessly threading the film onto it, using the pins to clamp the end of the film-roll down. Spooling with his right hand, with his left hand gently cupped around the film as he turns the wheel. Craig must have done this a hundred times.  
When the whole roll of film is on the wheel, it goes into a metal can, with an empty wheel at the bottom. “It’s a two-roll can,” Craig explains, talking out loud in Tweek’s own voice. It means nothing whatsoever to Tweek, but he nods and says, “Okay,” anyway. It’s a weird feeling, sharing control of his body like this. Weird, but not unpleasant. By now, the cold has spread to his stomach, but not his upper chest – Craig is being careful of that, careful not to freeze Tweek’s heart.  
Only when the can is screwed completely shut, does Craig reach Tweek’s arm out and turn the light on in the little room. Tweek staggers as he feels Craig leave his body.  
_We don’t need to do this next bit in the dark,_ Craig says, _So you can do it on your own. When you stop shaking,_ he adds pointedly.  
“I’m fine,” Tweek whispers, rubbing his arms. Well. That was definitely longer than nine minutes.  
_If you say so,_ Craig drawls. _Put your phone on the table, okay? So I can time it._  
Time what, Tweek wants to ask, but doesn’t. What follows is even weirder than spooling the film in total darkness. Craig makes him get three big, heavy kegs out of the bottom drawer of the desk, and tells him how to mix the first one with water in a big measuring jug, before pouring the mixture straight into the film can through a hole in the top.  
“But it’s gonna get wet,” Tweek hisses, even though he’s already pouring.  
_It’s supposed to,_ Craig reassures him. _Now plug the hole back up, and start shaking the thing, okay? I’ll tell you when to stop._  
Shake, then stop, shake some more, and stop again. Pour the liquid out in the sink, pour new liquid in, and shake the can, quite literally rinse and repeat. All while Craig keeps checking the time on Tweek’s phone. There’s some kind of method to it, obviously, but to Tweek it’s as mysterious as watching a Catholic mass on TV.  
Finally, they’re done. Craig tells him how to rinse the film off, and hang it up to dry on a little clothesline, with an actual wooden peg. _We need to leave those for a couple hours at least,_ he’s saying. _Probably just as well if we do the rest tomorrow morning. Now go eat something, okay? You did great,_ Craig adds, while Tweek hugs himself and shivers.  
“Thanks,” he whispers. In his own way, Craig is trying to look after Tweek, too. “I will.”

“I’m not _on_ the basketball team,” Clyde is saying, lying back on the only bare patch of grass on the whole lawn. The rest is either covered with leaves, or early snow. Colorado weather, go figure. “Just on the reserves.” He turns his head to grin at Tweek, as he plops down to sit tailor-fashion next to Clyde, and starts digging through his backpack for his thermos. “So they bring us in to practice against, when they’re not playing another school. Coach Benson likes to mix the teams up, pit the strongest players against each other,” he adds. Listening to Clyde talk now, you’d never think this Monday was the first time he’d talked in a month.  
“Yeah, but, you’re on the football team too,” Tweek blurts out, dropping the thermos lid he just unscrewed on the ground. “How come they let you do both?”  
“Uh,” Clyde props himself up on his elbow, frowning like he’s trying to work out exactly what Tweek means. “I asked nicely? The coaches pick the teams,” Clyde goes on, because Tweek’s confusion is probably painted all over his face. “That’s not down to us. Based on who’s tall and who’s wide, I guess? Benson wanted Craig for basketball, but I’m sure you can guess what Craig’s response was.”  
Tweek wordlessly holds up his middle finger.  
_Bingo._ Craig is suddenly sitting right next to him, crouching on the grass, elbows resting on his knees.  
“Yup.” Clyde’s eyes get a faraway look in them, but he’s smiling, too – like for once, it doesn’t hurt to think of Craig.  
Tweek pours some coffee into the lid of his flask, which doubles as a cup. He just holds it under his chin for a second. Lets the smell seep through his nose; the warmth through his hands, before he takes a long sip.  
_I guess you can inherit him,_ Craig drawls, but he’s not as calm as he sounds, because he flickers over to sit on Tweek’s other side. He’s sitting differently too, with his butt on the ground and his arms behind him, palms flat on the dirt. _I hereby bequeath to you my best friend,_ he says, _Because he can’t even see me anymore._  
Since Clyde’s staring up at the sky right now, Tweek risks a quick glare at Craig, and a jerky shake of his head. Like anybody could replace you, he wants to say. It’s not even _him_ Craig is angry with; for all that he’s the one getting snarked at. Tweek knows that. Craig’s just… frustrated, with all of this.  
_Shit, I’m sorry, Tweek._ Craig flickers again, and reappears right in front of Tweek, on his knees in the grass. _That wasn’t fair. I’m just… it’s Halloween. I promised to take Tricia trick-or-treating. My little sister,_ he adds, when Tweek can only blink at him. _I know I’m always asking you to do stuff for me, but…_  
Tweek’s been so good about not pulling his hair _all day,_ but his left hand is suddenly up there, fingers winding through the strands and yanking. And maybe Clyde’s become very attuned to peoples’ silences in the past few weeks, because he suddenly looks over at Tweek.  
“What’s wrong,” Clyde says quietly.  
“Um,” Tweek says, guiltily letting go of his hair, “Nnnothing?” Desperate for any distraction, he finds himself holding the cup out to Clyde, “You want some?”  
“Nah, but thanks for offering.” Clyde shakes his head. “My body’s a temple and all that.”  
“A t-temple to M-Mexican food?” A shadow falls over them, as Jimmy leans down on his crutches, grinning down at them both. A plastic Safeway bag dangles from the handle of his right crutch. So that’s what he had to go get from his locker.  
“Shut up, Jimmy,” Clyde grouses, but he doesn’t actually sound like he minds at all. He even sits up, and pulls his long legs back to make space for Jimmy to sit. “Where’s Token, anyway?”  
“M-making out with Nicole.” Jimmy is preening at being the one to drop this bombshell.  
“No way,” Clyde exclaims, but he sounds really pleased about it.  
“Yes w-way! And Tweek’s gonna finish the ph-photos tomorrow m-m-morning!” Jimmy puts his crutches to one side before he pulls a big, bulky _something_ wrapped in tinfoil out of the bag. “So we’ll just m-make the printers in time!”  
“That’s great!” Clyde gives Tweek a slap on the back, and Tweek can tell the other boy’s not using his full strength. Even so, it almost gives him a damn whiplash.  
“Anyway,” Jimmy is peeling the tinfoil back, to show there’s four squares of chocolate cake in there, drizzled with shredded coconut. Four _large_ squares. “M-my mom did some b-baking last night.” Each square has a little grinning marzipan pumpkin head stuck to it, at a jaunty angle. They look like something you’d buy in a store, almost too perfect to eat.  
“Whoa,” Tweek breathes, staring at those chocolate squares with his mouth hanging open. He can barely believe it, that _he_ gets to have something this.  
“Happy Halloween, Tweek,” Jimmy says, completely without stuttering, and holds the chocolate cake right under Tweek’s nose until he’s taken a piece. That fourth piece, the one Craig should have had – that one’s for _him,_ now.  
_Tweek,_ Craig says, _You can totally ask them to do it. Please,_ he adds, and he sounds so pathetic all of a sudden that Tweek just gives up.  
“Okay,” he says, before realising that doesn’t exactly come across as polite. “I mean, uh, thanks,” he quickly amends, but Jimmy just laughs at him, “This is really good!” Tweek is talking around his first mouthful.  
_Oh, Jimmy’s mom makes the_ best _cakes,_ Craig says wistfully.  
“ _So_ good,” Clyde agrees, closing his eyes while he chews. For a second, it almost sounds like he’s answered Craig and not Tweek.  
“Jimmy, you want some coffee,” Tweek offers, holding the cup out.  
Jimmy sniffs it, then jerks his head back. “A-are you insane,” he blurts out, before he laughs a little. Tweek finds himself smiling – it’s probably a _little_ stronger than the instant Jimmy keeps in the newsroom.  
“So, uh, listen,” Tweek says, precariously balancing the slice of cake on one knee, “Do you guys know if Craig’s sister has anyone to trick-or-treat with?!” He spits the words out in a big rush, before he picks the cake up again. Takes the biggest bite he can manage, so they won’t expect him to explain where that idea came from – not when he’s got his mouth full.  
“N-no idea,” Jimmy says, and he actually looks a bit embarrassed.  
“I hadn’t thought of that,” Clyde says, pausing with his piece of cake halfway to his mouth.  
“W-would she even w-want to? I mean…” Jimmy takes a bite of his own slice, chewing it thoughtfully.  
“We should do it.” Clyde nods once to himself, in a that-settles-that kind of way.  
_Yes,_ Craig says, and Tweek can see him making a fist, out of the corner of his eye.  
“B-but it’s tonight,” Jimmy yelps, startled into stuttering way more than normal, “And w-when was the last time w-w-we went trick-or-t-treating? Our old c-c-costumes w-won’t even fit!”  
“We’ll just use stuff we’ve got lying around at home,” Clyde says, shrugging like he comes up with homemade Halloween costumes every other day. All of a sudden, it’s like this whole thing is _his_ idea, and not Tweek’s – which suits Tweek just fine.  
“Hey.” The three boys look up, as Token’s shadow falls over them. No Nicole, huh. “What’d I miss?”  
“What did _we_ miss,” Clyde fires back, winking and slapping Token’s leg.  
“W-we’re taking Tricia trick-or-treating,” Jimmy says, like he’s already given up.  
“Cool,” Token says, matter-of-factly. “Clyde, we should totally dress up as each other. Oh thanks, is that for me?”  
“ _WHAT,_ ” Tweek yells, jerking backwards in shock and dropping his slice of cake on the grass.  
Jimmy and Clyde fall over each other laughing, while Token delicately plucks the last piece of chocolate cake from its tinfoil wrapping and start to chew. Then he looks over at Tweek, and his eyes are shining. Suddenly, Tweek can’t hold it in anymore, either. He laughs and laughs, until he feels like he can barely even breathe anymore, but it’s the best feeling in the world. Especially since he realises that Craig is laughing too. _Huh,_ Tweek thinks, _Craig must have missed this._


	7. This is the best I can do

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was very much inspired by these two drawings from Irondude's Creek Ghost AU:  
> http://iron-dude.tumblr.com/post/167029092965/if-anyone-missed-my-ghost-au  
> Especially the second one, so please go take a look! Literally everything this artist draws is stunning. 
> 
> Tonight's chapter features a bonus appearance by Stripe - God knows which number Stripe he'd be, give that Craig is around sixteen now - if it _is_ Stripe #4 he'd be getting old. Guinea pigs can apparently live up to eight years though, so it's possible! I'll leave that up to you to decide. But if Stripe really is six to seven years old, he'd definitely be very closely bonded to Craig...

“Count Blackula,” Token says, opening his mouth wide to display his dollar-store fangs. He’s literally just put on a tuxedo, because of course Token Black owns a tuxedo. And he’s carrying a wine glass with what looks like cranberry juice in it, which he keeps swishing. The boys have gathered in the Tuckers’ front yard, comparing costumes in the beam of the flashlight Tweek brought.  
“French b-burglar,” Jimmy says, squaring his shoulders. “ _M-Monsieur_ Le French Burglar.” He’s wearing black jeans and a striped shirt, with what looks like a pair of gardening gloves. And a black beret that probably belongs to his mother. Not to mention the bulbs of garlic he’s wearing on a string around his neck. He’s made himself a black mask, too, out of what seems to be the back cover of a magazine, since it’s all shiny and has a sideways “E” along one side.  
“Sherlock Clyde!” Clyde’s wearing a trench coat that must belong to his dad – it’s a size too small, and he’s left it open, so you can clearly see he’s wearing a grey sweatshirt with the Nike logo on it. But, he’s also got a magnifying glass in his hand and an actual deerstalker hat on his head. “Found it at the thrift store,” Clyde says, adjusting his hat a little. “Best five bucks I ever spent.”  
“Do you like my costume,” Tweek asks, turning to Craig who’s hovering at his left elbow. He flaps his arms a little under the bed sheet, and Craig rolls his eyes at him.  
_Asshole,_ Craig says, but he’s laughing.  
Just like Clyde with his trench coat, Tweek’s wearing his regular clothes under the sheet, and his filthy trainers. Out of all their “costumes”, his very clearly took the least effort. He didn’t even spend five minutes cutting those holes for his eyes and mouth.  
“You’re the g-g-ghost of baristas past,” Jimmy says, grinning at him.  
“Woo hoo,” Tweek responds, flapping his arms again, just as Token rings the Tuckers’ doorbell.  
Mr Tucker opens the door, blinking when he clearly recognises three of them. “Token? Jimmy, Clyde, what…” Behind him, you can see through the hallway and right inside the living room, where Craig’s little sister is standing in the middle of the floor. Eyes wide, mouth open.  
_Dad,_ Craig says, and suddenly this whole thing stops being fun. Under his bed sheet, Tweek finds himself pressing a hand against his heart, balling it into a fist.  
“Thomas, we should get going,” Mrs Tucker is saying, walking in from what must be the kitchen, buttoning a thick white cardigan over her green dress. She stops dead when she sees them, too, covering her mouth with her hand. “Boys?” They must be reminding her of all those times Craig would go trick-or-treating with these guys, Tweek realises, because Mrs Tucker looks like she’s about to start crying.  
_Maybe this was a bad idea._ Craig’s voice, coming from right next to Tweek’s ear, sounds all hollow.  
As Token launches into his explanation – they decided early on that he had to be the one to lay their case out before Craig’s parents – Tweek feels the sadness coming off Craig in waves. Tweek can’t see him anymore, but that sadness is tangible enough that it almost seems like he could just reach out and grab Craig’s hand.  
“This is…” Craig’s dad has to stop and swallow, and when he looks back up, his eyes are shining. “You boys…”  
“Tricia,” Craig’s mom says, crouching down on the carpet and cupping her little girl’s cheek in her hand. “Would you like to go?”  
“Yeah,” Tricia whispers, and suddenly runs for what looks like the basement door, disappearing down the stairs.  
“You boys should come on in,” Mr Tucker sounds normal now, more or less in control. “This could take a while,” he adds, with a smile that manages to be fond and exasperated at the same time.  
“Can I… get you anything?” Mrs Tucker looks almost confused, like she’s already forgotten what it was like to have a house full of boys; for all that Craig’s been dead for just a month.  
Token, Jimmy and Clyde all pile inside and onto the sofa, while Tweek follows more slowly, content to perch on one of the armrests. They must’ve been in and out of this house together since they were kids, while he’s never been here before. While the other three wave away her offers of refreshments, Tweek takes the opportunity to look around. There are plenty of signs that things aren’t going so well – an abandoned mug on the coffee table, still with some coffee on the bottom, a bowl of half-eaten cereal left on top of the low bookshelf that sits under the windowsill.  
“Who’s the ghost,” Mrs Tucker is saying. It clearly costs her a lot to act this friendly to some random kid in a bed sheet who’s just walked into her home.  
“Gah!” Tweek yells, as he realises he’s slipping off the armrest. He barely manages to catch himself on Jimmy’s shoulder before he falls on his ass. “I’m sorry!”  
“That’s Tweek,” Jimmy says, and makes it sound all casual. Like Tweek has always been a part of Craig’s little gang. Instead of showing up to take his spot after he died.  
“Oh, from the coffee shop?” Mrs Tucker is smiling, but her eyes are far away. “I go there sometimes. I like the cinnamon rolls,” she adds, and Tweek clamps his mouth shut before he can say that they’re just from Costco. He sticks to nodding instead, wishing he’d never shown up here dressed as a damn _ghost._  
Mr Tucker comes out from the kitchen, carrying four glasses by the simple expedient of sticking his fingers in them, and a big bottle of store-brand cola in his other hand. Even though they all said no thanks to drinks not five minutes ago. Craig’s dad seems so sad, and so grateful, that Tweek accepts a glass anyway, even though he has no intention of drinking it – he hates the stuff, especially the smell. He pulls the bed-sheet off his face, drapes it across his shoulders like a big shawl, and waits for an opportunity to tip the contents of his own glass into Jimmy’s.  
_Stripe,_ Craig suddenly says, and he must be standing very close, because a bolt of electricity shoots right through Tweek’s left arm, making his arm give a big twitch and his hand shake like crazy. _Tweek, say you need the bathroom and go upstairs! Then we can check on Stripe!_  
“Okay,” Tweek whispers, because anything is better than staying down here with Craig’s parents, pretending to drink flat soda. “Is, is it okay if I use your bathroom?”

_They tidied up in here._ Craig sounds almost disappointed. His room, with its pale blue walls and the Star Trek poster above the bed, is so clearly unlived-in. Even the unfinished schoolwork on his desk has been arranged in neat piles, and someone’s put a kitchen towel over his bulky old desktop computer – presumably to stop the monitor from getting dusty. _There, that’s his cage!_  
Tweek drops his ghost sheet on Craig’s bed, before he hurries over to the little table by the window. Where a guinea-pig sits in its big cage, listlessly chewing on something. It’s got a few different colours in its fur, including a big, dark brown splodge on its back that might _kind of_ look like a stripe if you squint. _Stripe looks so sad,_ Craig says. And he could be right. Who knows what goes on in that tiny head? For all Tweek knows, the poor guinea pig has spent the past weeks waiting for Craig to come home. Maybe it’s even given up by now.  
“It’s totally cool if you want to possess me now,” Tweek says, tossing his ghost sheet on the bed. His own voice sounds so loud in here. It’s like talking in a library, or a museum. A museum filled with a dead boy’s things.  
The cold hits him a second later, shoots through his body as Craig takes control too roughly, too fast, in his eagerness to hold his pet one more time. “Here, boy,” Tweek hears himself say, as he watches his own fingers open up the guinea pig’s cage with practiced movements. Behind the bars, the guinea pig stirs, and makes a piping, whistling sound before it eagerly climbs into Tweek’s hands. Craig lifts it up, cradling it against Tweek’s chest. He brushes Tweek’s cheek against the soft fur. “You poor thing,” he croons in Tweek’s voice, “Did you miss me?” And the guinea pig _knows,_ somehow, because it keeps whistling happily as it rubs against Tweek’s face.  
“What are you doing?” That voice is so flat and cold that Tweek lets out an involuntary scream – and for the first time ever, he can feel something inside him _push._ Craig goes one way, and Tweek goes the other, landing on his ass but somehow – thank God! – not dropping the guinea pig.  
Mrs Tucker is standing in the doorway, arms folded under her breasts. Her eyes are cold.  
“I’m sorry,” Tweek shouts, protectively pressing Stripe against his shirtfront. “I just, I just, GAH! I saw him sitting in there, and he looked so sad that I…”  
“Don’t go inside his room,” Mrs Tucker says, in that same flat tone Craig used to speak in. “Tricia’s ready now,” she adds, and Tweek gets a feeling that Craig’s little sister is the only reason he’s not getting kicked out of their house.  
_Mom,_ Craig says, materialising right in front of his mother. Waving a flickering hand in front of her face.  
“I’ll never do it again, I’m sorry,” Tweek babbles. He puts Stripe back in his cage as carefully as he can manage when his whole body is shaking this badly. He fumbles with the latch on the door; Tweek’s fingers aren’t nearly as used to opening and closing this cage as Craig’s were. Mrs Tucker has already turned her back on him – and on Craig, though of course _she_ doesn’t know that – in a wordless signal for him to get a move on. So Tweek runs over to the bed, but as he picks his ghost sheet up, he notices something on the nightstand. Craig’s hat, that blue one he always wore when he was alive – the one he still wears, every time he materializes for Tweek. Acting on an impulse he couldn’t explain even if someone put a gun to his head, Tweek scoops the hat up, tucking it inside the waistband of his jeans so that only the yellow pompom sticks up – but that’s quickly covered up by adjusting his shirt a little. Not even Craig seems to have noticed his theft; Craig’s still staring after his mother, one hand held out like he wishes he could stop her.  
“Come on,” Tweek whispers, and his whole body tingles for a second as he walks _through_ Craig. He can’t explain why, not even to himself, but he wants Craig’s hat. He needs it. 

The costume Tricia picked was Craig’s old Red Racer suit. The white helmet with the red “RR” logo painted on the front, the short-sleeved red boiler suit, a white bandana tied sideways around her neck, and a white pair of driving gloves. Just like Red Racer himself, in that old anime Craig had loved as a kid. Tweek noticed how Token’s face fell, how his voice broke over the words a little when he said, “That one’s perfect.”  
After Tricia has been talked into wearing an open puffer-jacket over her costume, and her father has produced a big Target bag for her to collect candy in – on the basis that it matches her outfit – the five of them set off. For obvious reasons, neither of her parents had thought to get Tricia a pumpkin bucket.  
As they walk down the streets – the tallest trick-or-treaters by far, save for the odd parent who’s tagging along in costume – Tweek can feel Craig’s hat rubbing against his bare skin. It’s not itchy; it’s actually very soft, like alpaca wool. It’s more the guilt that bugs him. But, he needs the hat. For some reason. He keeps one hand under the bed sheet, so he can light it up from the inside with his flashlight. It’s the one Dad keeps in the car for emergencies, so chances are the battery will last all night.  
“So _you’re_ Tweek,” Tricia says, whatever she means by that. Then she slips her little hand inside Tweek’s free hand, for all that she’s never met him before. Even though she must know the other three boys so much better. It doesn’t bother him, though – if anything, it’s kind of nice, and strangely calming.  
_She actually likes you,_ Craig is saying, sounding more than a little surprised. He’s more solid than usual tonight, solid enough that he appears to be walking between Tweek and Clyde, with Token and Jimmy bringing up the rear. _It’s not easy for her,_ he goes on, since Tweek can’t very well reply right now. _Liking people, I mean. Or making friends._  
Yeah. Tweek can see that, in the way Tricia keeps eyeing the other kids. Like they’re the enemy, but she wouldn’t _mind_ switching sides. And he recognizes the way the other kids pretend not to see her, too – the way they hurry up, move out of the way. Did they treat her like this _before_ Craig died, he wonders. Or did were they already bullying her? Did her brother’s death just add a dose of awkwardness to the whole thing?  
As they walk from door to door, Tweek can’t help but enjoy this a little. He didn’t do much trick-or-treating as a kid; you need friends to go with for that sort of thing to be fun. Soon enough, Tricia’s feeling tough enough to let go of his hand, and be the one who runs up to ring the doorbell. So Tweek drops back to walk next to Monsieur le French Burglar, while their little Red Racer leads the way to the next house, dragging Sherlock Clyde behind her. Count Blackula is trying to discreetly refill his wineglass from the bag of cherry Capri Sonne he’s pulled out of his pocket, and still walk at the same time.  
“B-b-bon soir,” Jimmy says, waggling his eyebrows at Tweek.  
“Woo-hoo?” He’s not sure if that’s the right response or not, but Jimmy rewards him with a quick grin, so probably. “This is nice,” he says, flapping his sheet a little. “I think Tricia’s having fun.”  
Jimmy gives him the strangest look. They’ve dropped behind a little now, is he getting tired? Should Tweek try to call for a break, or would that be insulting?  
“Y-you know, Tweek,” Jimmy says casually, “Craig had the b-b-biggest crush on you.”  
“Uh?” Tweek stops dead. He is suddenly brimming over with unasked questions, but his mouth won’t move, his voice is stuck inside him.  
_You asshole,_ Craig suddenly snarls, materializing right next to Jimmy. It’s like he’s not paying attention to forming his own body at all, because all Tweek can see is his head and torso, one hand on his hip, just before the legs fade away into nothing. And the other pointing right at Jimmy, jabbing, accusing, even though Jimmy obviously can’t see any of this.  
Wait, if Craig is this pissed… could it actually be true?  
“Craig,” Tweek says out loud, and Craig immediately flickers from glaring at Jimmy to glaring at Tweek. He suddenly remembers how Craig would sometimes turn around to talk to him in the classroom before the lesson started. How he’d always be careful to keep his voice low, and ask about non-threatening things like how the coffee shop was doing, or what kind of music Tweek was currently into. Had that been…?  
_What,_ Craig growls, but Tweek realises that he’s actually blushing. _Aw, screw this,_ he snaps, and disappears.  
“T-Tweek,” Jimmy is saying, chewing on his lip as he tries to catch Tweek’s eye. “I d-didn’t m-mean anything by it, okay? I just thought…”  
“It’s fine,” Tweek says, but his voice sounds way too cheery and loud. He remembers staring at Craig’s neck just about every day, wishing so hard that he had the guts, and the right, to reach out and tug on that curl sticking out from his hat. He’d always imagined that Craig would jump in his seat, spin around snarling like a cat that just had its tail pulled. But then, in Tweek’s imagination, he’d stop being angry almost immediately. He’d start laughing at how silly it was, to get mad over a little thing like that. Even though Craig Tucker almost never laughed at anything. He’d laugh for Tweek.  
“Hey, are you okay under there?” Token’s suddenly right in front of him, one hand on Tweek’s shoulder, shaking it carefully. All around them, kids are milling up and down the sidewalk with their little pumpkin buckets, ringing doorbells and pinching candy form one another.  
“Yeah! Sure!” Tweek even tries to smile, then realises how pointless that is when he’s wearing a bedsheet over his head. “Woo hoo,” he adds, unconvincingly, and flaps his arms.  
“Oh-kay,” Token says, clearly not buying it. “Come on, Clyde and Tricia are way ahead of us.”  
“Um, okay! Come on, Jimmy!” Tweek hikes up his sheet and hurries after Clyde, who he can just about recognise in the dark from that ridiculous hat perched on his head. His cheeks are burning underneath his costume, his throat’s swelling up, eyes stinging from the unfairness of it all. Because what if Jimmy really had been telling the truth? 

It’s normally the best-earning day of the week, so when Dad casually mentions they’ll be going to the Ashram this Saturday, Tweek chokes on his food in shock. Because the Ashram means going all the way to _Denver_. His parents came home with takeout from City Wok, since they’d been run off their feet all day at the coffee shop with no time to cook, right before Tweek got back from trick-or-treating. So Tweek has literally just tossed the bedsheet down the basement stairs, grabbed three bowls from the cupboard, and pulled up a chair. He hasn’t even had time to smuggle Craig’s hat upstairs to his room. Dad’s pulling the lids off the containers and Mom’s putting a fresh pot of coffee on. It’s all still warm, and it smells amazing, and then Dad starts talking about how it’s been almost two months since the last time they went to the meditation centre.  
Being a Buddhist family in Colorado means being flexible, and doing things like hooking up with the Hindus in Denver to meditate. Their faiths _kind of_ overlap in places, and there’s good vegetarian food to be had. And there’s a come one, come all kind of feel to the place. You can walk in there and flat out tell them you’re just there to meditate, and the people who run the place will be totally cool with that. They do free yoga lessons all week; and cooking classes on weekends. Not to mention they have the _best_ mediation spaces, and there’s always a group or two who want to play music while everyone else meditates. After the week he’s just had, Tweek wouldn’t exactly _mind_ some relaxing mediation.  
“Are, are you _sure_ it’ll be okay, though,” he asks Dad. But Dad’s got his mouth full of rice, so it’s Mom who answers.  
“It’s important that we do some things together, Tweek,” she says, picking up a veggie spring roll with the back ends of her chopsticks and dumping it on top of Tweek’s bowl – even though he’s just _had_ a spring roll. “As a family. We haven’t done nearly enough of that lately,” she adds, with a smile that manages to be both warm and sad at the same time.  
This _is_ the first sit-down meal they’ve all had together, Tweek realises, since after Mom and Dad picked him up from the hospital. They went out for Indian food, then, while Tweek had stared at everything and everyone in that restaurant, just blown away by how different the décor and colours were from the carefully sterilised open ward. Just drinking in all the cutlery sounds and curry-smells and gilded elephant statues, promising himself; _Never again._  
“We’ve got those college students to come cover for us until seven,” Dad chimes in, “So we just need to make sure we’re back before then. So your mother and I can work the last couple hours and close up.” The thought of going straight to work after that long drive doesn’t seem to bug him one bit. He helps himself liberally to deep-fried tofu; then puts the lid back loosely on top of the box, to keep the heat in.  
_Dude, I think your parents are trying to show you a good time,_ Craig drawls, materializing at the far end of the table. As though he’s been sitting there this whole time; drumming his fingers soundlessly on the table-top. _Personally, I’d have gone for the amusement park, but hey – you do you._ He shrugs, grinning to show Tweek that he’s teasing. He’s very carefully not mentioning the bombshell Jimmy dropped earlier, but that’s okay. That’s pretty much the last thing in the world Tweek feels like talking about.  
Suddenly, like he’s acting on some unexplained impulse, Craig reaches out and snaps his fingers right at that takeout lid – and it actually falls off! Tweek is so startled that he squeals and jumps in his seat.  
_Did you see that,_ Craig yells, happy and surprised at the same time, _I made it move!_  
Mom and Dad exchange and unreadable look, before Mom reaches out to put the lid back on the box – more firmly, this time.  
“Stupid poltergeist,” Tweek says, trying his best to make it sound like it’s a joke for Mom and Dad. It works, thank goodness – they both laugh, but Craig is laughing, too. And it’s hard for Tweek to pretend he can’t see him, when laughing lights up Craig’s face like that. 

“It’s got to be _this,_ ” Tweek says, pulling the hat out from his waistband as soon as he’s kicked his bedroom door shut behind him. Craig appears right in front of him, hands at his hips, bending down to study the balled-up blue wool intently.  
_Huh,_ he says, as Tweek straightens the hat out on his bedspread with one hand, while he raises his mug to his lips with the other. _It’s just my old hat._  
“You wore that hat every day,” Tweek reminds him, “Rain or shine. So maybe there’s some kind of, of spiritual residue on it, that gives you extra strength?”  
_You mean like a horcrux,_ Craig says, then blinks when the look on Tweek’s face finally registers with him. _What? My sister likes those stupid movies,_ he says, a little defensively. _That’s all._  
“I don’t think this hat is a piece of your _soul,_ Craig,” Tweek says, doing his best not to smile. “But, could you lift stuff _before_ I got it?”  
_Nope,_ Craig shakes his head firmly. _And I tried; believe me. So maybe there is something up with that thing._ He suddenly disappears, then reappears a second later at Tweek’s desk, where a wall of mostly empty takeout cups teeters, right on the edge. His smile turns evil.  
“Don’t you dare – ” Tweek begins, but Craig has already swept his hand right through the stack. And it’s falling, the cups tumbling over one another and rolling across the carpet as soon as they land.  
_I feel like I just levelled up, or something,_ Craig says, and when he grins at Tweek like that, it’s impossible to stay mad at him.  
“Something’s been bugging me, though,” Tweek says as he sinks down on the bed. Balancing his mug; the one with a smiling, seated Buddha drawn on the front in teal green, on his chest. It’s from Japan-town in San Francisco, a souvenir from a long-ago family trip. Supposedly, it’s Mom’s mug, but Tweek routinely steals it. He steadies the mug with his hand, letting that warmth sink right down into his core. “We still don’t know what your, your ghosting radius is. What if it doesn’t extend to cover Denver? I don’t want to, to hurt you or anything.” He still remembers the way Craig flickered, back in Mackey’s office.  
_Pfft, what’s the worst thing that could happen,_ Craig says, and his voice seems to be coming from the floor. _I mean, I’m already dead!_ Curious in spite of how tired he is; Tweek props himself up on one elbow. Craig is sitting cross-legged next to the bin, moving his cupped hands slowly towards the closest takeout cup. When Craig makes a grab for it, the cup seems to skid away from him, just an inch or two across the carpet. _Ugh, damn it,_ he growls, flopping backwards with his hands behind his head. _You want me to tip the bin, and then shove ‘em all inside it that way…?_  
“I don’t think so,” Tweek says, sitting up properly so he can drink, shoving his pillow up against the headboard. “I’ll clean it up later.”  
One second Craig is still on the floor – then, he’s sitting opposite Tweek, his long legs folded tailor-fashion underneath him. _Hey listen,_ he says, keeping his face carefully blank – like he always seems to do, when he doesn’t want his emotions to get the better of him. _I really appreciate what you did for my sister today. And how you let me hold Stripe,_ he adds, flickering again. Now Craig’s sitting there with his knees pulled up, arms wrapped around them. _I really missed… holding Stripe._  
Oh. Tweek slowly, carefully puts his mug down on the bedside table. “Craig,” he says, reaching out, and letting his hand hover just above Craig’s shoulder, which is quivering. “I wish… I really wish I could give you a hug.”  
Craig doesn’t answer, he just keeps shaking. Tweek shifts onto his knees, shuffling closer to the other boy, who is there but not there. Who he can see but not touch. He wraps his arms around each other, in a circle, just above where Craig’s shoulders are. Places his head just where his cheek would have touched Craig’s ear; if he could only be touched.  
“I’m so sorry, Craig,” he whispers, “But this is the best I can do.”


	8. I’m just trying to live

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So - Scott Malkinson! If you've ever played The Shattered But Whole (and if you haven't, it's amazing!), you'll know much backbone and moral fiber that kid has. So I really wanted to do right by grown-up Scott, since I have a feeling he'd be one of the coolest kids in class - because Scott believes in himself, and in doing the right thing. He makes the briefest of appearances in this chapter, but you'll definitely see more of him! 
> 
> Now, Craig and Tweek are still testing out what sort of ghost stuff they can do - and they're getting good at it, but maybe a little too good?

Being in school this early in the morning is pretty weird. After Jimmy’s mom drops them off at the front entrance, Tweek just takes a second to soak in all that emptiness. To be here, without being stressed or afraid at all, because the bullies haven’t even rolled out of bed yet… Skipping breakfast was worth this.  
“I t-take it you f-f-flourish in a McCormick-free environment,” Jimmy says, winking like he just read Tweek’s mind, as they walk down an echoing corridor.  
“Something like that,” Tweek agrees, grinning back at him.  
It’s a good thing Jimmy’s got keys to just about everything, _and_ the janitor’s phone number. Even though Tweek’s never met him before, and the guy barely speaks English, Jorge the janitor and Jimmy are somehow on a first-name basis. They have a long-established mime-routine going on, peppered with Jimmy’s unashamedly awful Spanish.  
All adults just seem to love Jimmy without question – like, Token, they will listen to, but Jimmy? They’ll bend over backwards for _him._ Last night, after they’d handed Tricia back to her parents, he’d somehow convinced Mrs Tucker to go through Craig’s room and bring them the box of Multigrade paper Craig had kept in his bedroom. She even put it in a bag for him. All this while Tweek waited down by the garage, terrified to even go near their house after his last encounter with Craig’s mom.  
_We’ve got less than two hours until school starts,_ Craig is saying, walking next to Tweek, hands shoved down the back pockets of his jeans. _We’ve got limited time, limited paper… Maybe it would be best if I possess you again. You’ll have a few hours to recover before gym, right?_ He’s so solid this morning; maybe it’s having a task to focus on that helps him keep his shape? They’ve very carefully _not_ discussed how Craig got upset last night; both of them are perfectly content to pretend _that_ never happened.  
“I don’t mind,” Tweek says, then stiffens when he realises he’s spoken to Craig in front of Jimmy.  
“You d-don’t mind what.” Jimmy turns to look at him, puzzled.  
“I wouldn’t mind a granola bar,” Tweek yelps; since it’s the first thing he can think of. “Since I, I didn’t have time for breakfast,” he goes on, rowing frantically, “And I’m not supposed to take my pills on an empty stomach…”  
Jimmy laughs, shaking his head. “And Craig used to think you w-w-were _shy,_ ” he snickers, swinging his backpack off one shoulder so he can have a rummage in there.  
_What the hell was I supposed to think,_ Craig growls, but it’s a rhetorical question, really, since he knows Jimmy can’t hear him.  
“That’s kind of… understandable,” Tweek says, shrugging as he accepts a Granola bar _and_ a green apple from Jimmy. “I mean, I used to scream when people tried to talk to me.”  
“What do you mean, “used to”?”  
“Ugh, shut _up,_ Jimmy!”

In the end, it only takes Craig an hour and a half. Since he’s still sleepy, it’s actually kind of pleasant for Tweek to relinquish control of his own body. The process itself is even kind of soothing, with all its many cryptic steps. From mixing all the liquids and putting newspaper under the three plastic trays; to swishing the photo paper in the trays of liquid chemicals in the red glow of the safelight... Maybe _because_ there’s so many things that have to be done precisely right. There’s just no room to think about stuff like Craig’s accident, or even Kenny McCormick.  
Craig stays mostly quiet, but it’s like his contentment seeps into Tweek’s awareness anyway. When he finally slips out, it’s like he leaves Tweek with this warm glow in his chest. _Just tell Jimmy you’ve hung everything up to dry,_ he says. _He can handle the scanning on his own._  
Tweek blinks. “You mean,” he whispers, “That after all that stone-age analogue shit we did, you were gonna digitize them _anyway_?”  
Craig tips his head back and groans. _It’s the process that counts,_ he mutters, before he disappears.  
“Really?” Tweek folds his arms. “That’s your best argument? And now you’re just gonna hide until I drop it?” Since there’s no response, he allows himself a little smile as he opens the door just a crack, and slips outside. 

The room next door to the newsroom is a kind of storage facility, where stuff like old biology charts and the male and female skeleton gather dust. Jimmy’s got keys to that room too, and he’s so high on relief that he unlocks the door so Tweek can have a look.  
“Wow,” Tweek breathes, because this is some next-level Indiana Jones shit. You could almost imagine someone stashed the Ark of the Covenant in here. There’s rows and piles of ancient school equipment – some of this stuff, he can’t even tell what it’s supposed to be for. There’s a planetarium that’s so old, the outmost planet is marked “PLUTO”. Tweek gives it a little push, and sends Pluto squeaking past Uranus, before it grinds to a halt. Nobody’s oiled this thing in years.  
“Look, Craig,” Tweek whispers, pointing. “There’s a moon globe!” It’s just like a normal globe, except all grey, of course, with landmarks like Olympus Mons marked out on the surface – and an electric plug dangling from the bottom.  
_You should totally come back and steal that,_ Craig tells him, dead serious, as he materialises right in front of Tweek. _What? It’d make your bedroom look almost cool,_ he adds, one blue-tipped hand hovering above the globe, when Tweek glares at him and shakes his head. _And it’ll fit in your backpack!_  
“Didn’t you ever come in here before,” Tweek whispers, but Craig can only shrug.  
_I don’t remember._ He sounds a little sad; like he’s disappointed he can’t steal that moon globe for himself. Then, he flickers out of sight, only to reappear right in front of the skeletons. _Wow. Aren’t they beautiful?_  
Tweek almost shouts; WHAT? But he bites down on his lip instead, and hurries over. Craig is so weirdly entranced by the two skeletons that he’s forgotten to materialize his own legs – just his head and torso, and his arms, gesturing so excitedly while he talks that Tweek can’t help but be pulled in.  
_I wish I could still take pictures,_ Craig is saying. _Imagine shooting a really beautiful girl, like Bebe I guess, posing with the female one? And catching that look on her face when she realises this’ll be her some day?_  
“That’s pretty grim,” Tweek whispers, looking over his shoulder to make sure Jimmy hasn’t heard him talking to himself. “Come on, I guess we’d better get to class.”  
_And I’d ask you to pose with the other one,_ Craig says, as though Tweek hasn’t spoken at all.  
“Me,” Tweek whispers, but Craig has already disappeared. For some reason, Tweek has the distinct feeling that he’s embarrassed.  
An idea hits him then; a crazy idea. It’ll take some figuring out, how to make it work. But, if Tweek can manage to look at it as a logical problem, it will at least seem a lot less weird. “Jimmy,” he calls out, not wanting to give himself time to second-guess what he’s about to do. “Can you come in here for a sec? And turn on the light?”  
“S-sure!” There’s a click as he pushes the switch; and the light-tubes overhead flare into life. Tweek can hear Jimmy’s tapping, uneven gait as he makes his way inside the storage room.  
The skeletons are mounted on poles, which are mounted on a platform with wheels. That makes them even higher up, and Tweek’s not exactly the tallest… He looks around the room, spots some folding chairs leaning against a wall – the same kind that Mr Mackey has in his office. Huh, that’s almost funny.  
“W-what are you d-doing, Tweek?” Jimmy’s whisper is comically loud. Looks like this is making him nervous.  
Tweek tucks one chair under his arm, and carries it over where he’ll have plenty of light from the open door. Unfolds it, tests it for structural integrity, and decides that this thing will probably hold him. Probably. Then, he squats and grabs hold of the male skeleton’s base, pushing it out onto the floor until he’s positioned it right next to the chair. Angles it to one side; giving Jimmy a side profile view of its eyeless, nose-less head.  
“I want you to take my picture with it,” Tweek says, as he pulls his glitchy old phone from his back pocket. On an impulse, he sets the camera to black and white. He has a feeling Craig would have done it like that – though obviously with a Cannon, rather than a Huawei.  
“Oh-kay.” Jimmy is clearly confused, but he takes Tweek’s phone anyway, tucking his crutches under his armpits for balance while Tweek climbs up on the chair. It doesn’t fold under him, and Tweek lets out a breath he didn’t realise he’s been holding. He reaches out, trails his fingers from the eye socket and down to the cheekbone.  
“Uh, that’s the m-male skeleton, by the w-way.”  
“I know,” Tweek tells him calmly. Then, he cups the side of the skull with one hand, leans forward, and closes his eyes as he plants a careful kiss on the skeleton’s exposed teeth. 

_Can you lift this,_ Tweek writes, peeking over his shoulder to make sure Craig is there, reading. Then he puts his pen down on top of his open notebook, and discreetly points to it. It’s raining outside, and they’re about halfway through their American Lit class. But Tweek would much rather test Craig’s ghost powers than sit here and pretend he’s finished Moby Dick.  
_Let’s see,_ Craig says, screwing up his face in concentration. He brings his hand out, lets it hover maybe a finger’s length above the pencil. Just for a second or two, the pen rises from the page, floating upwards to connect with Craig’s palm. But, when he tries to curl his fingers around it, it drops back down, clattering as it hits Tweek’s desk. _Damn it,_ Craig growls, while Tweek quickly slaps his hand on top of the pen before it can roll to the floor. Luckily, nobody seems to be watching them.  
“The white whale, of course, symbolises the unobtainable…” Mrs Stewart is saying, when suddenly, Craig stretches both hands past Tweek’s shoulders, palms down flat. Tweek watches, eyes widening as Craig makes his eraser float with one hand and his pencil sharpener with the other.  
“Clyde,” Mrs Steward suddenly says, “What are your thoughts about Captain Ahab’s obsession with the white whale?”  
Tweek, momentarily distracted from their ghosting practice, turns to look at Clyde. He’s gone all still, like he’s giving her question some deeply serious thought.  
_They’re doing this a lot,_ Craig says, _All the teachers are asking Clyde stuff._ His voice has suddenly gone flat again, so it’s impossible to guess if the thinks it’s a good thing or a bad thing. _Maybe his dad called and asked them to do it,_ he adds thoughtfully. _To keep him talking._  
That would actually be a pretty good idea, Tweek thinks, just as Clyde says, “It’s just an animal. It’s like he thinks it’s after him? But it’s an animal.”  
“Yeah, you said that already, _Clyde,_ ” Cartman jeers, like Clyde’s name is another word for “fart”.  
“Eric,” Mrs Stewart says, and there is a very faint warning tone in her voice.  
“Let him finish,” Tweek hears himself yell, before he clamps a hand over his own mouth.  
_Dude, that wasn’t me,_ Craig says, and Tweek knows he’s right. He’s not feeling cold at all – he’s just finally had enough. Everyone in class has turned to stare at him – Cartman venomously, McCormick thoughtfully. Stotch is _smiling_ at him, and somehow that’s even scarier than Cartman’s scowl.  
Tweek swallows. There he goes, acting smart in class again. Now he’s gone and called their vengeance down on his head, just because he couldn’t keep his mouth shut.  
_Hey, don’t just look at those assholes,_ Craig chides him, and Tweek feel a sudden electrical surge next to both his ears – as though Craig is trying to grab his head, and make him look around.  
So he does look – at Nicole, who’s giving him a sneaky thumbs-up, at Token reaching across the space between their desks to high-five Jimmy, and at Bebe, who makes sure she’s caught Tweek’s eye before she blows him a kiss. And best of all, there’s Clyde, squaring his shoulders as he says, “I _meant_ he thinks the whale is out to _get_ him. But it’s all in his head. The whale’s just trying to live.”  
“That’s a very good point, Clyde,” Mrs Steward says, and Clyde grins like a little kid, so happy at the praise. All around the classroom, hands are shooting up; for once it’s not just Token and Broflofski.  
Tweek grabs his pen, and starts writing with a sudden, frantic understanding. _I’m just trying to live, too,_ he writes, _But McCormick is like Ahab, he just made up some reason to hate me._  
A memory hits him – a month ago, on the school roof. He’d said something very much like this, hadn’t he. That all he wanted was to get away. He remembers how windy it got up there, how his hair had been blown back from his face. How his partly unbuttoned shirt had almost been blown off his body.  
“Would you really leave me alone then?”  
Just the two of them – just him and Kenny McCormick, who’d held Tweek in place when he flinched. On the edge of the school roof, on the edge of the world itself.  
He would have done, it, too. If the door to the roof hadn’t slammed open, if Craig hadn’t run out, panting and shouting Tweek’s name.  
_Took you long enough to work that out,_ Craig is saying, pulling Tweek abruptly back into the present. _Hey… Are you okay, man?_  
Tweek nods and swallows. _None of it was my fault,_ he writes, and Craig snorts loudly, right into his ear.  
_I could’ve told you that,_ he scoffs. _You idiot. I could’ve told you that ages ago._

“Hey,” Tweek says, swinging his backpack over one shoulder as he walks over to Jimmy’s desk after class has ended. “You think we can scan Craig’s pictures now?”  
“Oh, you d-don’t n-n-need to help out with _that!_ ” Jimmy says, as he swings his satchel over his shoulder and grabs his crutches from where they’re leaning against the side of his desk. “You shouldn’t be s-s-skipping meals,” he adds, “W-when you’ve got alien c-comedians to deal with.”  
“Huh?” It takes Tweek as second to remember that stuff Jimmy came up with, while they were waiting for football practice to start. To realise this is Jimmy’s super discreet way to remind him not to take his meds on an empty stomach. “Oh, right. But, um, can’t I tag along with you anyway? They’ll just want to sit with the _girlfriends,_ right?”  
Jimmy gives him a look like he’s gone crazy – or, well, crazier. “D-d-don’t be stupid,” he says, but not in a mean way. “That’s not how it w-works at all!”  
“It’s not?” Tweek’s not sure if he really believes this, but it’s not like he doesn’t _want_ to sit with everyone. He’s got way too used to not eating lunch alone.  
_Dude,_ Craig snaps, materializing next to him so suddenly that Tweek yelps and gives a little jump. _Clyde and Token aren’t like that!_ He actually sounds kind of offended on their behalf.  
“Sorry,” Tweek mutters, hoping Jimmy thinks _he’s_ the one being apologised to.  
“D-d-don’t apologise for t-trying to be nice,” Jimmy tells him, and he’s suddenly gone all serious. “Okay?”  
Tweek bites down on his bottom lip. “Okay.”

“Tweek,” Bebe says, as he walks up to the long table the other four have snagged, “I can’t find you!”  
Clyde and Bebe are sitting on one bench, pressed very close together, while Token sits at the head of the table. Tweek can’t help but wonder if maybe they’re starting to become _Token’s_ gang now, rather than Craig’s. Nicole’s sitting on his left, with Token’s hand casually resting at the base of her spine, and all four of them have their phones out on the table.  
“Uh?” Tweek blinks at Bebe, as he puts down his lunch tray. “I’m right here, though.” The vegetarian option was stir-fry with tofu today, made to look more “exotic” by the inclusion of bean sprouts and crunchy water chestnuts. It’s one of the better cafeteria meals, in Tweek’s opinion, since there’s also a generous heaping of rice on the side. It’ll tide you over for hours before you start to get hungry again.  
Clyde snorts, burying his face in Bebe’s hair. “On Instagram,” he mutters, his voice muffled by all those blonde curls.  
“Just tell us your handle, Tweek,” Nicole says, while Tweek sits down next to her. “You know, so we can tag you in that picture of our braid?”  
“Whatever it is, we’ve not been able to guess it,” Token chimes in.  
“And do you have any _idea_ how many people call themselves “Coffeelover- _something-or-other_ out there,” Bebe demands, sounding positively indignant.  
“Oh. I don’t to that, that stuff,” Tweek mutters, feeling his cheeks start to warm up. Dad’s been saying he should start an Instagram account for Tweak Bros, but it’s not exactly something Tweek’s felt keen to do.  
“You’re not on Instagram,” Bebe asks, in the same tone you would ask someone why they’d choose not to wear underpants. “Okay, so give me your phone.” There’s something about Bebe’s tone that makes Tweek hand his phone right over – a popular girl like Bebe is probably really used to being obeyed. Even though she might use up all his data downloading this stupid app he’s never even going to use. But maybe… maybe Craig had an Instagram account. Maybe his pictures are still up there.  
“We’re all gonna follow you,” Clyde promises, before he takes a bite out of his burger.  
“Maybe Tweek will be one of those people who photograph every cup of coffee they ever have,” Token says, speculatively nibbling on a French fry.  
“Of, of course not,” Tweek mutters, a little defensively, as he gets his thermos out of his backpack and pours himself a cup of coffee from it. “I’d never get anything done.”  
“There!” Suddenly, Bebe’s dangling his phone in front of his face. “You’re all set, just pick a profile picture and you’re good to start posting.”  
“Thanks,” he mutters, and looks up to give her a quick smile. And then, maybe because he’s not had enough sleep, or maybe it’s the Xanax talking, Tweek hears himself say, _out loud,_ “Clyde must really like bossy people, huh?”  
Oh shit.  
For a few seconds, the silence spreads across their table like an oil-spill in the North Sea. “I, I mean,” Tweek goes on, knowing he’s digging his own grave with his mouth but unable to stop, “Craig was always kind of bossy, right?”  
“Yup,” Clyde drawls, after what feels like a hundred years, “All my favourite humans are bossy.” Somehow, he manages to sound exactly like Craig. “Well,” he adds, and gives Tweek a lopsided grin. “Nearly all.”  
“Lucky me,” Bebe says, and she doesn’t even sound the slightest bit pissed. Tweek finally risks looking up; and she’s actually smiling! “I tagged you in my braid pic,” she adds, like this is a completely normal conversation. Like the two of them have been friends for years, and Tweek regularly braids Bebe’s hair into other peoples’ hair.  
“Okay,” Tweek says, and shoves some stir-fry in his mouth so he won’t say anything even more stupid. So he won’t ask her what _Craig’s_ handle was. 

It helps when you know how to sew. For Tweek, who’s been repairing his own clothes for years, popping the lining of his gym shorts last night was a piece of cake. But Craig seemed weirdly impressed by the whole thing, when Tweek sewed Craig’s old hat into his gym uniform. Now the left side of his shorts is a little heavier, a little lumpier – Tweek wishes he’d thought of stuffing the right side with something else, but it’s too late now. Nobody’s paying much attention to him anyway, while everyone’s getting changed. Outside, the wind is slapping the raindrops hard against the little windows that run along the top of the wall – just as well they’re playing basketball inside. Best of all, McCormick hasn’t even said two words to him, since Tweek’s getting changed next to Clyde and Token. Coach Turner is inspecting Jimmy’s feet on the opposite bench, tutting and shaking his head.  
“Sorry, son,” the gym teacher is saying, “I know you want to play, and I respect that. But I can’t let you play on that ankle.” Tweek sneaks a glance over at Jimmy, and swallows when he sees just how puffy Jimmy’s right foot is. If Tweek’s own foot looked like that, he’d be _begging_ the coach to let him off from playing! “You’re sitting this one out, son,”  
“F-f-fine,” Jimmy mutters, and he sounds like he’d like to say another F-word entirely. Was it all that walking up and down the stairs to the newsroom? And he’d seemed so happy earlier, when he shown Tweek the confirmation email from the printers on his phone.  
Tweek takes a step forwards, already raising his hand – he and Craig can try out this possession stuff next week; if he fakes a stomach ache or something, at least Jimmy won’t have to watch the class play alone.  
Immediately, Craig materializes in front of him, both palms held up flat. _Don’t,_ he says. _I know what you’re thinking, but don’t do it. Not if you still want to have a head._  
“Huh?” Tweek is surprised enough to say it out loud, but luckily, nobody seems to react.  
_If you don’t want your head bitten off,_ Craig explains slowly, like he’s talking to a child, _Don’t ever let Jimmy catch you feeling sorry for him. Trust me. He’ll be pissed._  
Craig has a point. But Jimmy’s obviously feeling so rotten about the whole thing that Tweek can’t just let it lie. “I think you’re cool,” he says, his voice only shaking a little bit, as he plops down on the bench next to Jimmy.  
“W-what?” This seems to have thrown Jimmy completely for a loop.  
“If _my_ ankle looked like that,” Tweek says, folding his hands between his knees. “I’d break into the doctor’s _house_ to get it looked at. _I_ think you’re nuts to want to play on it. But like, in a badass way,” he adds, looking up from his hands and into Jimmy’s wide-eyed stare.  
It only takes a second, before Jimmy’s face relaxes into a huge grin, and he reaches out to muss Tweek’s hair. No jokes for once, just this unspoken thing – friendship, acceptance, whatever you want to call it; it feels pretty damn nice.  
“Then you get to be the contact person,” Token suddenly says – _whatever that_ means – as he reaches past Tweek’s shoulder to hand Jimmy his iPhone. Whatever he’s talking about, it wipes that smile right off Jimmy’s face, as he nods and slips the phone inside his satchel.  
“I have n-nightmares about b-breaking that thing,” he says to Tweek, waggling one eyebrow, and it’s obvious that he’s only half kidding. How much does an I-phone even _cost_?  
“I get that,” Tweek whispers back, as he climbs to his feet, then figures he might as well wait for Jimmy to get up. Not being alone as he walks into the gym is a pretty good thing – besides, nobody wants to knock Jimmy over, so that offers its own kind of protection from the normal jostling and shoving. Clyde and Token have already run out of the changing rooms; Tweek just can’t comprehend how they can love gym so much.  
_I can’t wait to try this out,_ Craig says, his voice coming from behind Tweek’s left shoulder. _This is gonna be fun!_  
Tweek swallows. Maybe Jimmy’s not the craziest person here, after all. 

It’s looking more and more likely that Clyde was a topic at the school’s last staff meeting; because the teachers are starting to seem really… coordinated, in their efforts to keep him talking. Now, for instance, Coach Turner has just named Clyde one of the team captains for basketball – with Kyle Broflofski as the second captain. Even though _Token’s_ probably the class’ star player; when it comes to basketball, with Broflofski as a close second.  
So everybody lines up along the back wall, and Tweek, standing next to Token, steels himself for the humiliation of getting picked last. It might happen, and it might not – there’s also Cartman and Kevin Stoley to consider; the three of them usually end up in the final countdown when sports teams are being picked. So thin he appears almost concave, and with an actual bowl-cut that he apparently _wants_ because Spock has a bowl-cut; Kevin might even look more pathetic than Tweek does. He seems to notice Tweek staring at him, and actually smiles, but Tweek is too startled to smile back.  
“Token,” Clyde says; his voice clear and confident. Well, that doesn’t come as much of a shock. Token immediately jogs over to join him, pausing to give Tweek’s shoulder a quick squeeze. Like he’s saying sorry for leaving Tweek on his own.  
“Stan,” Broflofski immediately calls out, to nobody’s surprise at all.  
“Tweek,” Clyde says, and the whole boys’ group falls silent.  
“What?!” Tweek looks around frantically, as if there could possibly be _another_ kid here with the same ridiculous name as him.  
All around him, guys are laughing. “You’ve got friends in high places now,” Kevin is saying, giving Tweek a wink and a nudge with his arm.  
_Clyde always calls his friends first,_ Craig drawls. _Haven’t you noticed how Jimmy never gets called last? When he’s allowed to play, I mean_.  
Suddenly, somebody’s grabbed Tweek’s wrist, and on sheer reflex, he yelps and tries to break free. But it’s only Clyde, laughing good-naturedly and saying, “Come on, Tweek! I won’t let _them_ have you!” Like Tweek is some sort of super-player the two teams would fight over.  
“Sorry,” Tweek mutters, and lets Clyde drag him over to stand with him and Token.  
After that, the two captains whiz through the rest of the boys’ group. Because they’re an even number now, what with Craig being dead and Jimmy on the side-lines, Clyde even gets the very obvious satisfaction of picking Kevin Stoley over Eric Cartman, leaving the fat boy for last.  
Then, their team huddles up for a quick strategy session on one side of the gym – they’ll be lucky if Coach Turner gives them five minutes, so there’s no time to waste. “Right then,” Token says, taking charge for a second in spite of how he’s not the captain. “Broflofski likes to put himself in the front, and have weaker players feed him balls.” Right – those two are on the basketball team together, and so is McCormick, when he can be bothered to show up. “Today, I’m guessing Marsh will be taking that job. Broflofski can jump like a damn frog, but McCormick’s got better range – he likes to get his goals in from a distance. So Broflofski will be up front, to either score or distract us. But, he’ll rely on McCormick to knock those goals in if _he_ gets blocked.”  
“Good,” Clyde says, deadly serious now that he’s on the clock. “Scott, can I count on you to block McCormick?”  
Scott Malkinson grins – he’s gone from being that frail little kid with diabetes and a lisp that everyone made fun of, to being one of the star players on the football team. For all that he still needs his insulin shots, speech therapy killed the lisp, and a growth spurt took care of the rest. There’s an easy-going confidence to Scott now. “Leave it to me,” he says, and Clyde slaps his arm as thanks.  
“Token, you and I are gonna try to pincer Brofloski. But for the rest of you – don’t be afraid to try and score, okay? Don’t just pass the ball to Token or me, that’s what they’ll _expect_ you to do. And if anybody tries to trip you up, you should “foul” as loud as you can, okay?” Clyde gives first Kevin, then Tweek, a long, hard stare. “I don’t want you to get hurt. Now – Dutch head and shoulders, let’s go!”  
“Huh?!” The change is so abrupt that Tweek just stands there, blinking, while everyone else is forming a circle. There’s a quick flash of cold, and then Craig’s possessed him, moving Tweek’s feet so he’s suddenly in the circle between Token and Kevin.  
_It’s Clyde’s favourite warm-up,_ Craig says, already using Tweek’s hands to tap the top of his head. _Just go along with it, you don’t even need to know the words._  
That’s just as well, because the Dutch words sound like a kids’ song played backwards – “hoofud, shouders, knieen…” Jesus, it’s like they’re speaking in tongues or something. At least the movements are easy enough to copy. Touch your head, then your shoulders, before you bend over to touch your knees and toes, faster and faster. Every now and then, you break it up by touching your eyelids, your ears, your lips and the tip of your nose, in that order. On the other side of the gym, Broflofski’s team are warming up by throwing the ball to one another, practicing passes. They keep looking over at Clyde’s team like they think they’ve all gone nuts over there.  
_I can never work out if this is a strategy to weird the other guys out,_ Craig is saying, from somewhere in the back of Tweek’s head. _Or if it’s just Clyde being Clyde._ As soon as the warm-up is done, he slips back out of Tweek’s body, and Tweek’s far too winded to even think about answering – not good, they haven’t even started the game yet! Not to mention there’s that whole “don’t look too crazy” thing that he’s working on. The left side of his gym shorts is sagging visibly, but nobody seems to have noticed. Craig is a buzzing, comforting presence on his left side – unseen, but very much there.  
Once Coach Turner blows his whistle to start the game, and throws the ball up in the air, all the best players immediately jump for it. Tweek stays clear, in fact, he steps extra far back to avoid all the flailing arms, and the shoes that are suddenly at eye height. He tries to stay out of the way at first, and more importantly, to be on the opposite side of the playing field from the one McCormick is on. But then Marsh, who’s being blocked from passing the ball to Broflofski by Token, sends it sideways to Stotch instead. Stotch runs towards McCormick, bouncing the ball against the floor while he moves, lithe and fast for all that he’s small and thin, and suddenly, Craig says, _Now’s our chance!_ That’s all the warning Tweek gets – his whole body goes cold at once, and all of a sudden, he finds himself running up on Stotch’s left side. Now he gets it – that’s the side Stotch can’t see on. Craig brings his hand out for him, snatching the ball just before it can bounce back into Stotch’s hand. His legs crouch, then Craig pulls him into what feels like the highest jump of Tweek’s life. He has no idea how to aim a ball in the air, but luckily Craig does – and luckily, he’s the one who wrenches Tweek’s mouth open to shout, “CLYDE!”  
The ball shoots through the air, and even though he’s broad-shouldered and built for football, Clyde is tall, too. Tweek doesn’t actually _see_ him grab the ball he just threw, because he’s too busy landing on all fours, grunting as he skins his knee on the floor. Still, from the loud smack of a ball hitting the floor hard, to the happy shouts coming from his team members, he’s guessing Clyde must’ve scored.  
_Good job, Tweek,_ Craig says, as he slips right out of Tweek’s body again. Even though he’s the one who did all the real work. _Are you okay, not too cold?_  
“I’m fine,” Tweek whispers, grateful that nobody’s paying attention to him right now – just to Clyde. Guys are slapping his back and calling him “Flying Dutchman”, and he’s just scored the first goal of the game. Tweek can’t help but smile, just a little bit. Maybe this won’t be so bad after all.  
With Craig keeping his possessions to two minutes or so, the two of them quickly fall into a kind of rhythm. Tweek steps back from the action, moves around the perimeter until Craig spots an opening and takes charge. They help set up three more goals that way, not to mention they even snatch the ball from Marsh once, and twice from Cartman – twice! There’s an unspoken agreement between them not to go near McCormick, though.  
Things don’t start to go wrong until they score a goal. Tweek doesn’t even realise that’s what Craig’s doing, even though he’s running them towards the basket, ball pressed against Tweek’s scrawny chest. Suddenly he’s jumping, his arms are moving, and he’s watching the ball sail right through the hoop. Cheers explode around him, as even Scott breaks away from guarding McCormick to run over and slap Tweek’s back.  
“That was amazing,” Token shouts right into his ear, surprising himself as much as Tweek when he yanks him up into a quick, hard hug. But Tweek, looking over Token’s shoulder, sees McCormick eyes narrowing.  
McCormick’s waving his teammates over now, huddling up for strategy on his word even though Broflofski is technically the captain. This can’t be good. Tweek feels his pulse speed up, and there’s a whooshing sound in his ears. Clyde’s saying something to him now, but he has no idea what, just nods anyway. _Xanax and Anfranil,_ he thinks, even though the pills are in the locker room, zipped up inside his bag. He just needs to get through this game without panicking, and then –  
A ball hits his shoulder, hard, knocking Tweek head-first into Clyde’s chest. “Hey, what gives,” Clyde shouts, while the coach blows his whistle and yells at them to behave.  
“Oh sorry, _my_ bad,” Cartman simpers, “I guess the ball just… slipped out of my hand!”  
Nobody’s buying it, but nobody actually saw him take aim, either – nobody from Tweek’s own team, anyway. So Cartman gets let off with a warning, before they start the game up again. But, something’s changed now. Craig tries to move into position to steal the ball from Stotch again, only Stotch feints, and throws the ball backwards to McCormick – who knows exactly how to aim a basketball. This one catches Tweek right in the stomach, doubling him over and sending Craig flying out of him.  
“Aw shit,” McCormick is saying, though Tweek can barely hear him over the buzzing in his ears, “I’m sorry, Tweek!” The pain sears through his abdomen, and he can see it now, how the rest of this match is going to unfold. Ball after ball will be “accidentally” aimed at him, until he’s a bruised, sobbing mess. McCormick doesn’t even care about winning this game anymore; the objective’s changed now, to taking Tweek off the field.  
Out of the corner of his eye, Tweek sees a basketball rolling across the floor – then, a second one. They’re normally kept in a ball-cage over by the wall, did someone forget to lock…? He manages to straighten up somehow, though his stomach muscles are still on fire, and sees that the whole cage has been tipped on its side, balls spilling out of it. “Craig,” he whispers, though it hurts to talk, “Don’t…”  
But if Craig can actually hear him, he’s not paying any attention. The back doors that lead to the teachers’ parking lot fly open and inwards, letting in a big gust of icy wind. Coach Turner is shouting for someone to close them, but nobody can move, because all of a sudden, the basket balls are flying. Not so much carried by the wind as hovering in the air, a finger’s length above the floor, then higher, higher…  
Tweek suddenly feels his own feet leave the ground, though he’s not jumping, and Craig’s not possessing him, more like… lifting him, holding him up, while the basketballs whirl around him in a kind of moving, bouncing cocoon. Like a warning, he realises. A warning not to throw another ball at Tweek, or else. The wind is getting louder, and pretty much everyone is shouting, too. “Stop it,” he pleads, starting to get scared now, because Craig keeps lifting him higher. So high that, if it weren’t for the balls swirling around him like aggressive moons, Tweek could reach out and wrap his fingers around one of the basketball hoops. Can Craig even hear him anymore? It’s like he stopped being a boy, or even the memory of a boy, a while ago. Now he’s just… energy. Raging energy.  
Tweek is losing track of time – he has no idea if he’s been floating up here for seconds, or minutes – when suddenly, the energy that Craig has become just… shorts out. It’s there, and then it’s not, and Tweek is falling. But at the very last second, there’s a sort of push, as though Craig is using the final iota of his strength to slow his fall. To make sure Tweek won’t get hurt. Around him, the basketballs are dropping like hailstones, but Tweek is gently drifting, like a feather.  
Tweek hits the floor with a thump, legs folding under him, head cracking into the floor and sending sparks shooting off behind his eyelids. “Craig,” he whispers, too softly for even himself to hear. But he already knows that Craig really is gone, now.  
“Tweek, Jesus,” Clyde is shouting, dropping to his knees next to him and yanking him up into a sitting position. “Are you okay?!”  
Tweek sniffles, and licks his lips. Feels surprised, in a vague sort of way, when he tastes blood instead of snot. His nose is bleeding.  
“What the hell just happened,” Coach Turner bellows, but it’s not like anybody here has got an answer for him. A ringtone cuts through the silence, and suddenly Jimmy’s shouting, but Tweek can’t make out the words.  
“Oh, no,” Clyde whispers, and Tweek wants to ask him what’s wrong. But his vision is getting all misty; he can feel himself fading. The last thing Tweek registers is Clyde’s hand on his head, and his choked voice saying, “I’m sorry”. And then the darkness closes up around him.


	9. Dance with me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um, so how does that saying go? "Things have to get worse, before they get better?" Because in this chapter, you get a little bit of both. You have been warned...
> 
> The song that Tweek plays is Carla Bruni's Those Dancing Days Are Gone; you can find it here:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R4Y904-woJo  
> It is literally the most French song ever sung in English, and I love it.

Tweek wakes up in an unfamiliar bed. Piping in the ceiling above him, some grey, some painted a bright, searing yellow. He sits bolt upright, gasping. There’s a, a hole in his awareness, something’s missing – or some _one._ Craig!  
“Take it easy, Tweek.” It takes him a moment to recognise the voice, to put a name to the face.  
“Scott?” His voice is a hoarse, dry croaking thing.  
“That’s me,” Scott Malkinson says, and suddenly he’s there, carefully propping Tweek up into a sitting position, shoving what looks like a balled-up football jacket under his back in lieu of a cushion. “I promised Clyde to look after you for him,” Scott goes on. “He was real sorry that he had to go.”  
“Oh,” Tweek says, and swallows. No point in feeling disappointed, that the guys didn’t stick around. They’ve only been friends for like, a few days. This is what he gets, for being stupid.  
“Oh my God, Tweek!” Kevin Stoley’s face swoops into view. More animated than Tweek can ever remember seeing him, Kevin demands, “You’ve got to tell me how you did it, man! Telekinesis? Psychokinesis?!”  
White fabric screens on wheeled metal railings have been put up around the bed he’s on. For a second, it reminds Tweek so much of the A&E they took him to, that day he almost jumped off the school roof, that his breath hitches in his throat. But no, if he was in hospital, his classmates wouldn’t be in here with him…  
“Give him some space, Kevin,” Scott Malkinson says, yanking Kevin back by the crook of his elbow. “You feeling okay?”  
It takes Tweek a second to realise that Scott is talking to _him._ Well. He’s the one who went and fainted, isn’t he. So that does make sense. Tweek suddenly notices how Scott’s hair is wet – the shoulders of his T-shirt as well. Wait, did Scott _carry_ him here, through all that rain outside?  
“Uh,” he says, gingerly touching the back of his head, “Probably?” There’s a bump forming there, underneath his hair.  
“Coach Turner has a theory,” Scott says, “That when the wind blew into the gym, you’re so thin that it just picked you up. Along with all those basketballs.” He doesn’t sound like he believes it for a second, more like he thinks this whole “theory” is hilarious. But still. It sounds better than – what was it? Psychokinesis?  
“I, I don’t remember what happened,” Tweek lies, hoping he sounds convincing. “I think I hit my head?” He probably sounds more scared than confused, because his heart is beating like crazy. Where did Craig go? Was it too much for him, levitating Tweek _and_ making the basketballs spin?  
“Are you serious?!” Kevin raises his hands towards the ceiling, like he’s about to start clawing at the air. Only now does Tweek spot the towel draped across Kevin’s shoulders, and the weird way his hair is sticking up, so different from his usual shiny helmet-hair. Like it got wet and then dried all funny. “I witnessed actual science fiction happening, right before my eyes, and now you’re saying you don’t remember how you did it?!”  
“I told you boys to come get me when he woke up!” An unfamiliar woman bustles inside – did the school hire a new nurse since last month, or from the start of term? Tweek has no idea; there was a different nurse here when he came in on Monday with Clyde. She’s got dark hair piled up in a bun on her head, and little dangly cat earrings. For all that she hustles Scott and Kevin outside and tells them off, Tweek can tell that she’s actually nice. People who like animals usually are, Tweek thinks – just look at Craig and his guinea pig.  
“The skinny one told me your name’s Tweek Tweak? Is that correct?”  
“Um, yeah,” Tweek mutters, sneaking a glance at the nurse’s name tag, which reads “Robinson”. Such a nice, normal name. “Sorry,” he adds, “My parents are a bit…” he shrugs. Creative is not exactly the right word, is it? Not when he’s essentially got the same first _and_ last name, with only a couple of vowels’ difference.  
“So Tweek, you fell and hit your head during basketball, is that right?” While the nurse asks him all the same questions Clyde got asked a few days ago – is he seeing spots, does it hurt to look at her pen-light – and Tweek answers “no” to all of them, he can hear Scott and Kevin whispering on the other side of the screens.  
“…think he’s gonna be okay,” Kevin is saying, and he actually sounds worried.  
“…seems pretty coherent, even if he can’t remember anything,” Scott replies, his voice deep and reassuring.  
Tweek can’t believe his ears – he’s nothing to these two, but they’re… waiting for him? Waiting so they can all go back to class together, even? Why did he never realise that Scott and Kevin were this nice? That he could’ve just, just talked to them, and they’d actually have given him the time of day all along. What does he even know about them – like, are they friends, and do they hang out after school like Clyde and the others do? He knows that Scott’s on the football team, and that Kevin… Kevin has a girlfriend? Kevin, who talked to him in gym class today, only Tweek didn’t even respond.  
It’s not just everybody else’s fault that he’s been alone. That thought hits Tweek like a sucker-punch. It’s not even all McCormick’s fault, because nobody but him even seems to be that scared of the guy. Anytime, he could have talked to someone. If he’d just stopped being so damn scared, and looked outside of his own stupid, fearful bubble.  
“It was just as much my fault,” Tweek says out loud, then immediately regrets it. Damn, with Craig around, he’s got a little too comfortable just saying whatever pops into his head.  
“Well, I’m not so sure about that,” Nurse Robinson says, assuming he was talking to her. “Your friends out there told me a couple of boys in your class have been picking on you, is that right?”  
Friends, Tweek thinks, and he can feel his eyes start to water. He begins to cry – but not for the reason the nurse thinks, that’s pretty clear. “You can always come to me,” she’s saying, while she rubs her hand up and down his back. “Or whichever one of my colleagues happens to be in. They rotate us between different schools now, as part of the new system. But they’re all very nice. So nobody’s going to call you a liar, okay?”  
“Oh-okay,” Tweek says, trying to at least keep the sobs quiet. Kevin and Scott are sitting _right out there,_ after all. While Nurse Robinson explains that she’s going to send him home, and advises him not to stare at his phone or any other screens for too long, he just nods. At least she’s not insisting one of his parents has to come and get him; the afternoon rush will be starting soon, back at the coffee shop. “Thanks,” he says, as he hops off the bed – and then, as an afterthought, “I like your earrings.”  
The nurse smiles; surprised but happy. “Thanks,” she says, moving one of the screens to let him out. “Now off you go! And remember, stay off your phone!”

Token isn’t the only kid in class who has a car. Turns out Kevin Stoley drives a rickety old Ford station wagon that he’s spray-painted silver and named the Enterprise. And that he’s more than happy to drive Tweek over to Tweak Bros, since this means he won’t have to return to gym class. “Scott was the one who carried you all the way from the gym,” Kevin had said, waving away Tweek’s thanks. “All I did was tag along to open doors for him.” Kevin even accepted a large chai latte on the house, in exchange for telling Dad that the rest of their lessons got cancelled.  
So now Tweek’s back at the coffee shop, practicing latte art to get his mind off everything. Dinner today was mushroom risotto, with a drizzle of olive oil and peppery rocket piled on top, and a banana for desert that Mom had drawn a smiley face on. Now Mom’s restocking the cold drinks cabinet, and Dad’s gone to the bank. It’s getting dark outside, and Craig is still not back. But hey, no biggie, right? Craig’s been known to disappear before. So there’s no need to panic, because this is just a temporary thing.  
His phone buzzes once, in the front pocket of Tweek’s apron. He discreetly pulls it out, and finds a message from Clyde there. _Are you okay,_ it reads; _can I call you?_  
_Sorry, working,_ Tweek texts back. Clyde probably assumes he needs to be okay to work in the coffee shop, since he doesn’t text back. Nothing could be further from the truth, though. Tweek’s worked here with the flu, coughing and sneezing into his elbow. He’s worked here with a fever, a sprained wrist and even with an eye-patch; mixing coffees with mono-vision wasn’t easy, but he did get the hang of it eventually. So no, Tweek’s not okay, but he doesn’t need to be.  
He’s thinking he’s just about got the hang of that bathtub polar bear thing Dad showed him the other day, when the shop door clangs open with such force that it slams right into the wall. The spoon Tweek’s been using to shape the foam plops right into the cup as he jerks his head up, and he sees her immediately. Striding briskly through the café in her green pea-coat; long blonde hair streaming out behind her. One finger pointing right at Tweek.  
“You,” Mrs Tucker says, loud enough to make every single customer look up from their books and phones. “You stole from me!”  
“GAH!” Tweek knocks the coffee cup over as he ducks under the counter, arms instinctively wrapping around his head. While a stream of lukewarm, sticky cappuccino trickles down onto the floor next to him, Tweek can hear his mom running over from the table she was wiping down, her shoes going click-click-click on the floor.  
“Mrs Tucker,” she’s saying, “Please calm down, I’m sure we can resolve this!”  
All over the shop floor, customers must be staring. Tweek can feel his throat tightening, his hands starting to tug at his hair. He can’t afford to give the IKEA hat back. Not after it’s given Craig this whole new range of things he can do.  
“Your son,” Mrs Tucker’s voice is trembling, “Snuck into Craig’s room yesterday! He took Craig’s hat! I didn’t notice it was missing until this morning, but the hat was gone! And your son was the only one who went upstairs!”  
The way she says those words, _your son._ Like they’re another name for “vermin”, or “poison”.  
“Laura, wait,” Mom says, pleading, skipping straight to first names without permission. “Let me talk to him. Tweek’s not… well,” she adds, and how someone can cram so much love and embarrassment into just one word, Tweek will never know. He’s too busy hyperventilating, anyway, to give it that much thought. Shoes clicking, skirts swishing, Mom comes behind the counter. Crouches down next to Tweek, and pulls him close so she can kiss the top of his head.  
“Hey kiddo,” she says gently, “I need you to come back to me, okay?” She untangles his hands by sliding her own fingers through his, then pulling their knotted hands back down. “Tweek, sweetheart,” Mom says, “It’s okay, you just need to tell me what happened.”  
Somewhere far away, the shop bell dings – the customers are probably starting to leave, because who needs this shit with their coffee, right? It’s all Tweek’s fault; now they’re going to lose _at least_ three regulars because of him. Probably more like five.  
“What’s going on here?” Dad’s voice – so that bell was him. He must be back from the bank, Tweek realises. Mrs Tucker immediately rounds on Dad, telling him the same story, her voice getting increasingly shrill the more she talks.  
“I d-d-didn’t take anything!” Tweek forces the lie out between his clattering teeth. He starts crying, loud enough for even the customers in the furthest window seat to hear, pushing his head into the front of Mom’s apron. “She can search my room,” he sobs, “She can search my school bag, I don’t _have_ Craig’s hat!”  
It’s safe for him to say that, of course. Because the first thing Tweek did after Kevin dropped him off here, was slip into the toilet to transfer Craig’s hat from the lining of his gym shorts to the lining of his parka. And _nobody’s_ going to think of looking in there.  
“I believe you, sweetie,” Mom says, and pulls him close – not long enough for the shaking to stop completely, but it’s slowed down quite a bit when she lets him go and stands up. “Richard,” she says, “Why don’t you go bring Tweek’s school bag out? And afterwards, Laura and I can drive back to our house and have a look at his bedroom. All right?”  
“All right,” Mrs Tucker says, and she sounds calmer now. “You must think I’m crazy,” she adds, almost too soft to hear.  
“Laura,” Mom says, “There’s no way I can understand what you’re going through right now. But I’m a mother too,” she goes on, as she walks back out onto the shop floor. “If anything like that happened to _Tweek_ …”  
“Tweek,” Dad says, making Tweek jump as he suddenly appears behind the counter, “Wait out back until she’s left. Crazy bitch,” he adds, under his breath, almost too soft for Tweek to hear. Dad holds his arm out, and Tweek grabs it. Lets Dad haul him to his feet. As he slips inside the back room, ducking under Dad’s arm, he can see that Mom is hugging Mrs Tucker. Right in the middle of the shop floor, where all the customers can see. And it looks like Mrs Tucker might be crying. 

Mom doesn’t come back to the coffee shop. After about an hour, she sends Dad a text about how she’s staying home to make them all “a nice big supper”. Which doesn’t add up, since all three of them have already taken turns eating dinner in the back room. Tweek, reading that message over Dad’s shoulder, feels himself go cold all over. Something’s up. Still no sign of Craig, either, so it’s just as well the afternoon rush gets so busy with just the two of them in the shop. There’s just no time for Tweek to think about this stuff, or even sit down with his homework. Not that he’d be able to concentrate on much of anything.  
Just under an hour before closing time, he finally gets a text from Token. _Hope you’re feeling better. Sorry we had to take off like that._ Still no explanation, but it’s not like they owe him one. It’s not like those three owe him anything. Tweek texts back, _I’m fine,_ although he’s anything but. Still. What’s one more lie, to someone like him? He can’t shake this feeling; that he’s waiting for the penny to drop, for one more awful thing to happen. Disasters always seem to come in threes.  
“I understand that Tucker woman is having a hard time,” Dad says, as he starts the car and gets ready to drive them home. “But that was unfair to you, what she did.”  
“Mm,” Tweek says, pulling his parka closer around himself. The guilt is like a stone in the pit of his stomach.  
The smell hits them as soon as Dad pulls the front door open – Mom’s heating up a pizza, maybe two. So much for spending the last couple of hours cooking up “a nice big supper”. “Hey honey,” Dad calls out, tossing the car keys and the house keys in the little lotus-shaped dish on top of the shoe-rack. His voice all cheerful, even though he’s frowning. “Something smells good!”  
Tweek kicks his shoes off and unzips his parka, but leaves it on. He can always say he’s cold, because how else can he smuggle the hat up to his bedroom now? School bag dangling over one shoulder – at least he’s got until Sunday night to finish that homework – he pads cautiously through the hallway and into the living room on his bare feet, dirty socks dangling from one hand.  
Mom’s in the kitchen, sitting at the table with some papers spread out in front of her. She’s set a place for each of them, and brewed a fresh pot of coffee, too. She’s even poured herself a cup; in that mint green mug with the polka dots and the gold edging that she likes so much – but she’s not drinking from it. Just staring at those papers in front of her, shuffling and rearranging them.  
“Hey Mom,” Tweek says, walking past her as casually as possible, so he can toss his socks in the laundry basket by the cellar door.  
“Tweek,” Mom says, and her voice is so flat and dead that he drops his socks right on the floor. “Can you explain this?”  
That’s when he takes a proper look at those papers, and recognises the writing. Craig’s writing. A whistling sound starts up; a thin, piping noise that he suddenly realises must be the sound of his own breathing.  
“Did you write all this,” Mom is saying, like she already knows the answer.  
“Tweek?” Dad is steering him by the shoulders, pushing him into taking a seat at the table. “Tweek, try to calm down. What is this stuff?”  
“Craig’s mother found these in Tweek’s desk.” Mom’s voice still sounds all dead, but she’s crying now, tears running in silent streams down her cheeks. “They’re letters. And the handwriting is a nearly perfect copy of her son’s. Tweek, have you been taking your pills?”  
No. No, no, no! “It’s, it’s not _like_ that,” Tweek yells, pushing his chair back as he stands up. It crashes against the kitchen floor, but that doesn’t even startle him, because there’s no way. No way he will let them send him back to that place!  
“Just answer me,” Mom says, making a grab for his flailing hands. “Have you or have you not been taking your pills, Tweek?”  
“I don’t understand,” Dad is saying, shuffling through the pages of Craig’s private goodbye letters. It would make Tweek furious, if he wasn’t already so scared. “Craig Tucker? What did Tweek even have to do with him?”  
“I was in _love_ with him,” Tweek screams, because it’s the truth. “I was in love with him, but now he’s gone, and, and…” He snatches blindly at the pages, and manages to grab almost all of them, tearing a couple as he pulls them out of Dad’s hands. “And those aren’t for you to read,” he sobs, balling the pages up and pressing them against his chest. Then he runs upstairs, chest heaving, his backpack dangling from one arm and almost catching on the edge of the bannister. Slams his bedroom door behind him, and dumps the whole mess of papers right on the floor, before he grabs the chair from his desk and rams it under the doorknob. Then he sinks down on the bed, wraps his arms around his head, and howls like a dog. 

_Hey Tweek,_ Craig says, a hundred years later. Long after Dad’s stopped knocking on the door and trying to cajole him outside. Tweek slowly forces his neck to move, vertebrae by vertebrae, so he can look up and see if Craig’s really there. _I don’t know what happened back at school,_ Craig is saying, sitting cross-legged at the other end of Tweek’s forest green duvet cover. _I just know something went wrong, and I had to go. Did they… hurt you after that?_  
“No,” Tweek mutters, digging his fingers into the duvet cover. “I kind of… passed out. Scott carried me to the nurse’s office, and then they sent me home.”  
_Scott Malkinson,_ Craig asks, and he sounds surprised.  
“Yeah, and Kevin Stoley, too.” Tweek discreetly wipes his nose on his sleeve. “They’re both really nice, actually.”  
_I could’ve told you that,_ Craig says, and he’d sound exasperated if he didn’t already sound so worried. _I don’t know why you’ve been so scared of like, half the people in class,_ he goes on, _When the only ones you really needed to keep your distance from was McCormick and those other assholes._  
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Tweek replies, “If my parents even _let_ me go back to school on Monday.”  
_What happened,_ Craig whispers, and all of a sudden, he’s sitting a _lot_ closer.  
So Tweek tells him. He lets the whole sorry story pour out of his mouth, and the only bit he leaves out is how he just came out to his parents. How he let the biggest secret of them all just spill from his lips. While he talks, he starts to realize that Craig is making the pages fly. One by one, they rise from the floor, like A4-sized snowflakes falling in reverse. The creases straightened by invisible hands, before they slowly float down to land on that small space on the duvet between them.  
“You have to understand,” Tweek says, swallowing, “I was in mental hospital. In _Denver._ And we don’t even know your, your full ghosting radius yet. So if my parents decide to dump me there again, you might not even be able to come with me.”  
_They won’t,_ Craig says, full of a strange confidence that Tweek doesn’t feel at all. _And I’m not going to leave you again, okay? I promise._  
“You can’t promise something like that,” Tweek protests weakly. “We still don’t even know how this ghost stuff works, not completely.”  
Craig doesn’t answer him at once. He just cups his hand, and runs it along the contours of Tweek’s face, trailing blue phosphorous above his skin. _Dance with me,_ he says.  
“What,” Tweek yelps, so surprised he nearly slips off the bed. “You always told people you didn’t dance.”  
_Well, yeah,_ Craig says, _Because I didn’t want to dance with girls. But I wouldn’t mind if it was you._  
Can he tell, Tweek wonders. Are there still echoes in the house, from when he screamed that he loved Craig? Do feelings that strong get stuck inside the walls and ceilings, vibrating at a frequency that only ghosts can perceive?  
He swallows. “Okay,” he says, and pulls his phone out of his pocket. “There’s this song that, that kind of makes me think of you, anyway.”  
_I get my own song,_ Craig says, and his tone is gently teasing.  
Tweek doesn’t reply, just swipes his finger through the screen-lock and opens the music folder. Taps that Carla Bruni song from his mom’s playlist; before he carefully balances his phone on top of an empty mug on his desk.  
“Come, let me sing into your ear,” the opening notes ring out, as Tweek blushes and opens his arms wide. “Those dancing days are done.”  
Craig flickers from his seat on the bed, and suddenly he’s standing right in front of Tweek. _This is so weird,_ he says, but he’s smiling, as he brings his arms around to hover just above Tweek’s back.  
“All that silk and satin gear,” Carla sings, “Crouch upon a stone.” The electricity from that almost-touch makes his whole back tingle, while his hands, hovering just above Craig’s shoulders, are vibrating with supernatural energy. “Wrapping that foul body up in as foul of a rag…” Tweek closes his eyes for a second, lets his feet set the pace across the worn-out carpet. “I carry the sun in a golden cup, the moon in a silver bag.”  
“I totally had a crush on you, too,” Tweek whispers, as hot tears force their way past his eyelids.  
_I can totally tell,_ Craig replies. Somehow, he manages to sound super happy and infinitely sad, all at the same time.  
“I carry the sun in a golden cup,” Carla whispers behind them, “The moon in a silver bag.”

When Tweek finally works up the courage to go downstairs, it’s almost anti-climatic. Mom and Dad have worked their way through one and a half pizzas, the whole pot of coffee, and most of a box of tissues. They look up when he clears his throat in the doorway, both of them red-eyed and sniffling.  
“I haven’t been taking the Anfranil,” Tweek says, before either of them gets a chance to open their mouth. “Because I hate how it makes me feel all dead inside. But I take the Xanax every day. So don’t make me go back there, okay?” His voice breaks a little on that last word, but he bites his lip, determined not to cry.  
Dad gets to his feet, and scoops Tweek up in a big, spine-crushing hug. “Okay,” Dad says, and his voice is thick and heavy. “And, and thanks for telling us,” he adds, before he somehow hugs Tweek even tighter. “I’m proud of you, son.”  
“Sit down and eat,” Mom says, and her voice is shaky but also very warm. “And I’ll put some more coffee on, and then we’ll talk. All right?”  
“All right,” Tweek mutters, just as Mom joins their little huddle, hugging him from behind. It’s going to be okay, he knows that now. It’s all going to be okay. 

Just before midnight, a text message from Clyde ticks in. _Are you awake,_ it says, _can I call you now?_ Tweek may be exhausted, and he may be under instructions not to look at his phone, but he’s also fallen down the rabbit hole that is Craig’s Instagram account. After everything that’s happened today, it just feels so good to switch his brain off from all that stuff and go look at the pretty pictures. There are some seriously gorgeous photos on Craig’s profile; sometimes they’re even of places Tweek can recognise – like a pastel sunrise over Stark’s pond, with three ducks flying over it in a V-formation. Captioned “#nofilter because filters are for pussies”. But there are also little videos of Stripe that he’s shot on his phone – Tweek had no idea you could even teach a guinea pig to do tricks! Is there anything cuter in the _world_ than a guinea pig holding his paw out like a dog? Or hopping up on his hind legs to tap his front-paws against Craig’s palm?  
Craig seems to like watching them, too, though he keeps insisting he doesn’t remember any of it. Not the guinea pig tricks, not the nature photography; or any of the more artistic ones. Even stuff with him and his friends, like Clyde pretending to stuff Token head-first into one of those big bins at the Bijou Cinema, or Jimmy doing his stand-up in the school auditorium… even with those, Craig can’t recall the stories behind them. He’ll only say things like, _Huh, I didn’t realise Clyde could lift Token,_ or _I guess Stripe must be pretty smart._ All these holes in his memory must be bugging Craig something fierce, but he’s pretending so hard they don’t that Tweek is _almost_ convinced.  
By the time Tweek’s scrolled down to Craig’s very first photo, he’s got a splitting headache. He’s torn between the cosiness of being in bed with Craig stretched out behind him on the duvet, peeking over his shoulder, and the feeling that his brain might try to push its way out through his eye sockets soon. There used to be a bottle of Advil in the bathroom, in the cabinet under the sink, but his parents removed it before he got back from the hospital, for obvious reasons. He’ll have to go knock on their bedroom door and maybe even wake them up, and is that really worth it? That’s when Clyde texts him.  
So now Tweek is staring at his phone screen for several minutes, even though it makes his headache _way_ worse than it already is – long enough for Craig to get interested.  
_Are you pissed with Clyde about something,_ he asks, sounding honestly puzzled. Because Craig has no idea what happened, after he levitated Tweek in the gym. They talked about it, after Tweek had brushed his teeth and gone to bed, and all Craig remembers is coming back in here to find Tweek crying. Like Tweek had _pulled_ Craig to him, somehow, by being so desperately upset.  
“Am I pissed with Clyde,” Tweek says out loud. Asking himself, as much as Craig. Sure, it hurt being abandoned – but then, before this week, he didn’t even _have_ any friends to be abandoned by. And Scott _did_ say something about Clyde making him promise to look after Tweek.  
While he’s chewing this over, another message lights his screen up: _Btw my sister says hi._  
Tweek can’t help but snort. _I’m awake,_ he texts back, before he can regret it. Literally seconds later, his phone starts to buzz. Good thing he turned the ringtone off; he’s supposed to be asleep now!  
“Hey,” he whispers, pulling the duvet over his head.  
“Tweek, I’m so sorry,” Clyde blurts out, loud enough that Tweek yanks the phone back from his ear. “I feel like an asshole for leaving you behind like that!”  
“Shh, it’s fine,” Tweek hisses, then holds his breath, just waiting for Dad to knock twice on the door and stick his head in.  
“It’s totally not fine, you were _unconscious,_ ” Clyde replies, and at least he’s turned the volume down a few notches. “But Scott explained, right? Why we had to go?”  
“I guess,” Tweek says, picking a vague answer out of the air. If he’s being honest, he doesn’t really remember what Scott said. “Scott’s really nice,” he adds, because this is something that needs to be said. “ _And_ Kevin. I, I had no idea how nice they are.”  
“That’s… that’s good.” Clyde sounds a little confused. “Right? So how’s your head now?”  
“It hurts,” Tweek admits, “Because I’m an idiot. Instagram,” he adds, before Clyde can ask.  
“Ah. I noticed you hadn’t followed any of us back yet,” Clyde says. “Guess I just assumed it was because you’re pissed with us.”  
Tweek twists his head, and groans into his pillow. “I’m not pissed. I told you!”  
Craig, sitting cross-legged at the foot end of Tweek’s bed, tips his head back and laughs. Easy for him, when Tweek’s the only one who can hear him! _Welcome to Clydeworld,_ he says, obviously trying hard to talk in his usual drawl – and failing miserably, since he’s laughing too hard.  
“Are you _sure?_ Because you sound kinda pi–”  
“I just said! I’m not!”  
“Well, if you’re sure…”  
Tweek starts to laugh too, as quietly as humanly possible, while Craig spreads his hands and shrugs.  
“I’m going to Denver tomorrow,” Tweek says, when he’s finally got himself under control. Changing the subject seems like the only way to save what’s left of his sanity. “With my parents.”  
“Really? I’m jealous, man! I’ve got to work at my dad’s store. He’s hired these stupid college kids who keep cancelling their shifts last minute. And he’s way too soft to just sack ‘em…”  
While Clyde talks, Tweek rolls over on his back. Lets his eyes slip closed, and thinks about how this is the same boy who, just a few days ago, sat next to him pushing the food around his plate. Not talking, not eating. Maybe it _is_ a little bit thanks to him, that Clyde is so close to his old warm, goofy self. After all, Craig couldn’t have fought back to back with Clyde if he _hadn’t_ been able to borrow Tweek’s body. So maybe it _is_ possible for Tweek to actually help someone. Maybe just a _little_ bit of the credit for this miracle can be his.


	10. Have you heard of the killer shrew?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! Just a short update tonight - I thought about it, and decided I'd rather post a short update than no update at all, so yeah... In the end, it might be for the best that I divide what happens during the next day into smaller blocks. Because, how do I put this; Tweek is going to have a very long Saturday. 
> 
> It probably doesn't surprise anybody that I just assumed Token would grow up to be ridiculously hot; he did score second on the girls' list, after all, back in elementary school. BUT, I also headcannon that Token would have glasses; he just wouldn't always _wear_ them. Probably because he'd ruined his eyes with too much studying. I recently had a very long and strange South Park dream (my only other story on here is based on parts of it!) and in my dream, he had these big, 1950's glasses that somehow suited him anyway.

Everything is going just fine, until they cross the town border. Tweek’s had the back seat to himself, which means Craig materialized next to him as soon as Dad pulled out of the driveway. So excited, for all that he talks in a careful monotone and keeps his face blank; that he keeps flickering in and out of different positions. Craig never seems to notice these, these _shifts_ himself, which only makes it more unsettling for Tweek to watch. One second, he’ll have his ankle balanced on the opposite knee – then suddenly, he’s got both his long legs stretched out, under and _through_ Mom’s seat. Or he’s leaning in close to talk to Tweek, then suddenly, he’s over by the window with his nose pressed against the glass. You could get _seasick_ watching him. Or carsick, Tweek supposes. Craig’s hat is safely stuffed inside of Tweek’s parka again, so hopefully having it close by will help make him more… coherent, soon.  
_Now leaving South Park,_ Craig says, pulling Tweek out of his thoughts, as they get close enough to the town sign to read it. He sounds so happy – and then, he’s not.  
The change is sudden; a wild panic that hits Tweek out of nowhere. Part of it is the possession; he knows the feeling now, of Craig taking over his body without asking. “Stop the car,” he hears himself scream, except it’s not him at all. It’s Craig, using his voice. And the pain is intense, like someone has reached inside his chest to squeeze his heart into mulch. “Stop the car, stop the car!!”  
Dad pulls over, a hundred years too late, and Tweek is out of the car before it’s even stopped rolling. Running along the shoulder of the road, one foot on tarmac, the other on dirt, half sliding down into the ditch. He knows immediately when he’s run far enough, because the pressure on his heart is gone, that blind panic dissipates instantly. It’s like he’s run right through an invisible wall, and now he’s back on the safe side.  
Tweek drops to his knees, retching, as Craig finally wrenches himself out of Tweek’s body. _Tweek, I’m sorry,_ he’s saying, and he sounds so frightened that Tweek wishes he could say something to reassure him – only he’s too busy puking to form coherent words.  
Vaguely, he becomes aware that Mom has joined him, there by the side of the road. As cars whizz by, she crouches next to him, slipping her cool hand across his slick, sweaty forehead. Holding him steady while he vomits, until it feels like there’s nothing left to throw up.  
“Mom,” Tweek mutters, hating how his eyes are suddenly filling up. “I’m sorry.”  
“Don’t be silly,” Mom says, like it’s no big deal. Like this doesn’t mean the end of their trip to Denver at all. “Dad’s going to bring the car around, and then we’ll go back home. You must’ve picked up a virus,” she says, brushing his hair back from his face.  
All the while, Craig watches him sadly, squatting on his haunches, arms balanced on his knees. Not talking anymore, just shaking his head slowly.  
“I’ll be fine on my own,” Tweek yells, as an idea that’s all his own bubbles to the surface. “You and Dad should still go to Denver! I’ll ask Token to pick me up!” It’s insane – he’s barely spent a week in Token’s friend circle, not nearly enough to warrant a favour of this magnitude. But still, some part of him knows – Token will come.  
“I don’t know about that,” Mom says, but just the fact that she isn’t outright saying no gives Tweek hope.  
“I’ll call him now,” Tweek says, pulling his phone out of his back pocket with one shaking hand. Thumbing through the ridiculously short contacts list, he finds Token’s name in no time. Sets it to speaker-phone before he calls; then puts his phone down on the ground – just in case he has to be sick again. He’d never have had the guts to make this call just a week ago – hell, he wouldn’t even have had Token’s number a week ago.  
“Morning, ghost boy,” Token says, answering on the third ring. He sounds groggy, like he just woke up.  
“H-hey, Count Blackula,” Tweek responds shakily, and is rewarded with a deep, warm laugh.  
“Tweek,” Mom snaps, horrified, which only makes Token laugh more.  
“Oh hi, is that Mrs Tweak,” he says pleasantly, like it’s no big deal to be put on speakerphone with somebody’s mom, before you even get out of bed.  
Just then, another wave of nausea ripples through Tweek’s body, leaving it up to Mom to explain things to Token while he tries to retch as far from the microphone as possible. By the time he’s done, Mom’s already hung up, and Dad’s brought the car around, honking to get their attention.  
“He’s going to pick you up at the Roadhouse,” Mom says, waiting for Tweek to get up until she hands him his phone. “Here. We’re going to wait in the parking lot until he gets there.”  
“Okay,” Tweek says, wiping his hands down the sides of his muddy jeans. 

“Have you heard of the killer shrew,” Token says, as he pulls out of the Roadhouse parking lot. He’s wearing glasses, and Tweek didn’t even know Token _had_ glasses until just now. They suit him, though – the thick, square black frames make him look like he should be wearing a suit and smoking a pipe, and maybe writing science fiction novels on a typewriter. But then, Token is stupidly handsome – he’d probably look good in _anything._  
Tweek, fumbling with his seatbelt, isn’t sure he heard that properly. “What,” he asks, reflexively looking over his shoulder. Craig is sitting in the back seat, right in the middle. No seatbelt for the dead, and he’s not saying much, either – though it seems to help that Token’s here. He seems less… agitated now. While Tweek’s still looking, Craig suddenly flickers from that position and over to the window seat on Token’s side. One arm pressed against the window, resting his forehead against it. Not like he doesn’t want Tweek looking at him, more like he doesn’t even realise he’s moved.  
“It’s an animal,” Token says, calmly swerving the wheel as he steers the car back onto the road. “About the size of a mole. Their hearts beat like, eight hundred times per minute, which is insane, right? And they have to eat all the time; or they’ll die. So there are all these videos on YouTube, of these tiny little shrews attacking big snakes and cats and things.”  
Tweek suddenly finds himself remembering his first day back at school. That fight in the cafeteria, where Craig possessed him and made him jump on Cartman’s back. “Are you saying _I’m_ like a killer shrew,” he asks, glancing over at Token.  
“What? No!” Token sounds horrified at the very idea. “No, I meant Kenny McCormick! _He’s_ like, propelled forward in life by this need to _devour_ everyone he comes across,” Token says, his voice thick with distaste. “Spiritually, I mean,” he adds, when Tweek does nothing but gape. “I’m not saying he’s an actual cannibal.”  
“I’m pretty sure they beat him at home,” Tweek says, glancing out the window.  
“I’m sure you’re right.” They’re on the freeway now, and home is maybe fifteen, twenty minutes away – or less, depending on how fast the Prius can go. “So then he roams around the school, looking for someone to take all that out on. With eight hundred heartbeats a minute and a mouth full of venom.”  
“Huh,” Tweek says, looking back at Craig, who’s stopped flickering. At least that’s got to be a good sign. “Is this from a poem you wrote, or something?”  
“No, I mean that literally,” Token says, sounding surprised. “The shrews have this venom in their teeth? That’s how they can take down snakes and scorpions and stuff! I’ll leave the poetry up to you,” he adds, with a sneaky raised eyebrow.  
Tweek groans, while behind him, Craig starts to giggle like a little kid.  
“It sounds weird, right,” Token is asking, pulling up at a red light. Tweek is startled when he realises that they’re almost downtown already. “I mean, I’ve never tried to explain this to anyone before, I just… I just always think, “Ugh, killer shrew,” whenever McCormick starts doing his asshole thing…”  
_Token’s so cute when he’s being irrational,_ Craig suddenly says – sudden enough that Tweek snaps his head back to look at him. Lucky for him, Token’s too concerned with watching the road to notice.  
“I guess, what I’m trying to say is, it’s not you.”  
“Huh?”  
“It’s nothing to do with you, or, or who you are, that makes McCormick go after you,” Token says, and Tweek suddenly realises that he’s embarrassed. That’s why Token’s looking so hard at the road. He’s trying to avoid eye contact. “He’s just like a, a crazy little animal that needs to go after other people to live. If he can make someone else feel like shit, he’ll feel less shitty about his own life.”  
“Are you… trying to make me feel better,” Tweek asks cautiously, as the lights turn green again.  
“I’m just telling you what I think,” Token replies, a little stiffly, pushing his glasses up his nose with his middle finger. “Based on my observations. But you feeling better would be an acceptable side effect. Clearly.”  
“Clearly,” Tweek agrees, and tries not to make it too obvious that he’s grinning. 

Token’s house is insane. Craig has to remind Tweek to shut his mouth twice, as Token leads him through a living room the size of the school cafeteria and up a wooden staircase with a bannister that looks like it was carved by hand before it was installed here. Gazelles and zebras, leaping and rearing, cut into the dark wood. There’s paintings and wooden masks mounted on the wall, and some weapons, too; a bow and a quiver made from embroidered hide, and two short spears crossed under a painted shield. Not to mention the 42-inch flat-screen TV; or the little speakers discreetly mounted in the ceiling. Craig points them out to him, but once Tweek’s noticed the first one, he keeps spotting more.  
“Do you still feel sick,” Token is saying, pulling his sweatshirt over his head and revealing that he isn’t wearing a shirt under there. “You can have a lie-down in my room if you want.” Token’s back is muscular and lean, and Tweek quickly has to drop his gaze to the carpet, so he won’t weird Token out by blushing. That’d be great, wouldn’t it, after Token literally rolled out of bed to come bail him out.  
_Enjoying the show,_ Craig asks testily. Wait, is he actually jealous?  
“Shh,” Tweek hisses, but he doesn’t trust himself to look up and glare. “Uh, no,” he says, hoping that break didn’t sound unnaturally long to Token. It’s the truth; as soon as he was back across the city line, behind the “now leaving” sign, whatever was affecting him _and_ Craig just… stopped. “No thanks, I feel much better now, for some reason…”  
“I just need to have a quick shower,” Token is saying, as he opens his bedroom door, tossing his phone and car-keys on the bed beyond Tweek’s line of vision. “I kind of… skipped out on that. Sorry,” he adds, sounding embarrassed.  
“Dude.” Tweek is startled enough to look up, and right into Token’s eyes. “You’re like, the nicest guy in the world! What do _you_ have to be sorry for?”  
This time, it’s Token’s turn to look down. “I’m sorry about a lot of things,” he says, pulling his glasses off. “Being unwashed and gross is like, the least of them. I mean…” he looks up, his brown eyes boring directly into Tweek’s, “I could have said something. Told McCormick and Cartman to leave you alone. I wanted to, but…”  
“Come on,” Tweek mutters, sitting down on Token’s unmade bed. The mattress sinks down beneath him, then immediately seems to reshape itself around his butt – memory foam, probably. “Didn’t you just drive out to get me?” In spite of being deathly embarrassed, he manages to smile. “That’s more than enough.”

Of course Token’s bedroom has an en-suite bathroom. Tweek perches on the bedframe while Token’s showering, careful not to touch anything or even move too much. The bedding is actual white linen, and the front of Tweek’s trouser legs is stiff with dried mud. Craig joins him, sprawling backwards on the bed with his sneakers on. _He keeps his sweats in the middle drawer,_ Craig says, pointing.  
“I’m not just going to go through Token’s _stuff,_ ” Tweek whispers, but he does get up, because a framed picture on the top of that dresser has caught his eye. There they are, Craig’s little gang, huddled together. Arms around each other, grinning into the camera like they think they’re going to live forever. That’s Craig’s house in the background; it must’ve been taken in his front yard.  
_Hey,_ Craig says, _I remember that one!_  
“This one,” Tweek whispers, carefully tapping the frame with his fingertip.  
_Yeah. I think…_ Craig’s brow furrows. _My dad took the picture,_ he says. _It was someone’s birthday? Clyde’s birthday. And we were going bowling…_ Tweek waits for him to remember something else, but that seems to be it.  
“More importantly,” Tweek whispers, “We found out where your boundary is.” It seems that Craig is quite literally tied to the town of South Park, and anything outside that boundary is ghost lava. “What did it feel like, for you, when we drove through it,” he asks, still careful to keep his voice down.  
_Like diving through a freezing waterfall,_ Craig says, shuddering. _Like I could feel myself… breaking into pieces. I’m sorry I possessed you again, but –_  
“Well, I’m _glad_ you did it,” Tweek whispers fiercely. “Who knows what would’ve happened if you hadn’t? You’re the only one who feels bad about the whole possession thing, anyway,” he adds, doing his best to make it sound like this is no big deal at all. “I think you should just do it, if you have to.”  
_Are you serious,_ Craig says, so surprised he almost sounds angry.  
“Of course I’m serious,” Tweek whispers back, feeling oddly defensive for some reason. It’s _his_ body, so if _he_ says it’s okay, why should Craig even mind?  
_It’s just, the more we do it… The more times I possess you, the more things get…mixed up._ Craig holds his hands up, first apart, then slotting his fingers together, like he’s trying to illustrate the point he’s making. But Tweek is more fascinated by the faint blue outline that’s around Craig’s fingers, dancing on his skin. Like phosphorous, or magic. _The harder it gets to remember where you end,_ Craig is saying, _And where I begin._  
“It’ll be fine,” Tweek whispers, but he doesn’t manage to sound too confident.  
Next to that first picture is what looks like a Polaroid, but is probably just an Instax, balanced against the frame, and partially hidden behind Token’s glasses. Tweek picks it up for a closer look. Taken downwards, while those four stood in a cluster; just a picture of their feet. It takes Tweek a second to realise they’re all wearing Converse in different colours – that must’ve been why. A yellow pair for Jimmy, framed by his crutches. Then, a burgundy pair for Clyde, a bright purple pair for Token and a navy blue pair for Craig. Huh. Tweek glances down at Craig’s not-quite-solid feet, and realises he was right – those are the shoes Craig has been wearing this whole time.  
“Converse are bad for your feet, you know,” Token says, making Tweek jump. “But Clyde’s dad made special insoles for all of our pairs.” Tweek turns around, and sees Token towel-drying his short hair. There’s a second towel wrapped around his waist; pristine white against his dark skin, and that’s it as far as modesty is concerned. Tweek quickly looks back at the picture. “They’ve got this gait-analysis machine at the store,” Token goes on, “That designs and 3-D prints personalised insoles for you. If he’d actually charged us for those, I’m sure they’d have cost more than the actual shoes!” Token laughs a little, as he walks past Tweek to grab his glasses from the top of the dresser. “Here, why don’t you borrow some sweat-pants? You can roll them up,” Token adds, over his shoulder, as he casually strolls into the honest-to-god walk-in closet that’s the size of goddamn _Narnia_.  
_Told you so,_ Craig says, with one smugly raised eyebrow.  
This time, Tweek does turn around and glare at him, before he starts to unbutton his jeans. Where are Token’s parents right now, he wonders. Have they gone our already, or is the house so big that it only _seems_ empty and they’re actually just in, like, a completely different _wing?_  
Tweek grabs a navy blue pair of sweat pants, since the colour reminds him of Craig, and pulls them on while Craig points at him and snickers. _You’re so little,_ he says, and Tweek quickly looks over his shoulder to make sure Token hasn’t come back out, before he sticks his tongue out at Craig.  
“You’re okay with pancakes, right,” Token is saying, from the cavernous depths of the closet. “I was thinking we could drive down to the IHOP for some breakfast. Clyde’s got to work, but I can pick up Jimmy on the way. What do you say, Tweek – sound good?”  
“Sounds great,” Tweek says, just as Token comes back out wearing an expensive-looking pair of jeans, and a purple T-shirt with what looks like a basketball that’s caught on fire, and the words “Phoenix Suns” at an angle. Must be some kind of sports team, Tweek decides. “Oh, I don’t follow them or anything,” Token says, confirming Tweek’s suspicions that this is a team shirt. “But this time I went to Sloppy Seconds with the guys –”  
_The_ only _time he’s ever been to Sloppy Seconds,_ Craig drawls, suddenly appearing behind Token and leaning over his shoulder, like he’s inspecting the T-shirt. Or maybe he’s trying to jog his memory? _Probably,_ Craig adds, very softly, confirming Tweek’s suspicions.  
“Uh, Tweek? Are you okay?”  
“Shit,” Tweek yelps, grabbing a handful of his hair in each hand on pure reflex. He’s slipping up, getting so used to having Craig around that he forgets not to react to the stuff Craig does. How long, before Token starts to think there’s something _else_ wrong with Tweek? Something even _worse_ than his current laundry list of mental problems? “I mean, I mean, I’m fine,” he says, lowering his shaking hands to his sides. Clenching them so hard, his nails dig into the soft flesh of his palms.  
“Not feeling dizzy or anything,” Token asks, peering into Tweek’s eyes. “I mean, you hit your head pretty hard yesterday, so when I heard you were throwing up…”  
Oh, wait – is _that_ what Token’s worried about? Tweek’s so relieved, he almost laughs. “I just got really carsick for some reason,” Tweek says, shrugging like he finds convulsive vomiting positively _boring._ “I promise my head’s fine now, okay?”  
“Okay,” Token says, giving Tweek’s shoulder a careful slap. “Just give me a second to put my contacts in, and then we’ll go.”  
“What?! But they’re cool,” Tweek exclaims, and instantly turns bright red. “I mean, your glasses,” he mutters, scuffing the carpet with his big toe. “They suit you.”  
“Really?” Token gives him a long, searching look. “Nah,” he says at last, shrugging. “Driving’s better with contacts. And Jimmy would call me four-eyes,” he adds, as he disappears back inside his bathroom.  
“He _wouldn’t,_ ” Tweek says, horrified.  
“Oh, he would,” Token says – at the exact same time as Craig says it. In perfect sync, for all that Token can’t see or hear him. It makes Tweek’s heart scrunch itself up, but Craig is smiling.


	11. It’s got to stop somewhere

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part of the IHOP scene in this chapter (and yes, I realize it's called IHOB now, which is a little bit sad, I guess? End of an era, for sure) was inspired by a rather awkward experience from my own life. When I showed up at my best friend's house for breakfast, and she opened the door yelling "Thomas' mom is on TV!!" before dragging me inside and up the stairs. It was really sad and awkward, but somehow also horribly funny? And I remember thinking that I needed to put this in a story someday...

At the International House of Pancakes, Token is mortified that Jimmy has just ordered French toast. “It’s not called the IHOFT, now is it,” he’s saying, and Tweek honestly can’t even tell if Token is kidding, or what. “I suppose Tweek’s gonna order an _omelette_ next,” he adds, raising one eyebrow.  
“Gah! No! I’ll have pancakes,” Tweek yelps, and knocks over the salt shaker on their table.  
“D-dude, he’s only m-messing with you,” Jimmy says, and gently bops Tweek on the head with one of the menus.  
“Am I,” Token says tonelessly, only to ruin the effect one second later by snorting.  
“Now, which pancakes would that be, sir?” The waitress looks like she’s struggling hard not to roll her eyes – what do they earn, here at IHOP, anyway? Not enough to have to deal with Tweek spazzing out over what to order, that’s for sure.  
“Blueberries,” he says, picking the first thing his eye lands on. “Blueberry pancakes?!” His hand slips up into his hair of its own accord, only for Jimmy to pull it right back out. “And, and black coffee?!”  
“Blueberry pancakes and a black coffee, all right. And how about for the connoisseur over here?” The waitress is pretty, Tweek supposes, with masses of black hair piled on top of her head, and winged eye-liner like an old-fashioned movie-star. And she clearly doesn’t find Token ugly; in spite of the sarcastic little smile she’s aiming at him.  
“I’ll have the harvest grain and nut pancakes with the cinnamon apple compote,” Token says, rattling that off like he’s in some fancy restaurant ordering wine. “And a latte, please.” While he talks, he’s gathering up their menus in a neat little stack, which he taps on the table so that it’s all nicely aligned by the time he hands it back to the waitress. “Thank you.”  
Craig’s taken the empty seat next to Token in their little booth, and he’s resting his chin in his hand, looking across the table at Tweek. There’s an unconscious little smile on his face, which only widens when he realises that Tweek is sneakily watching him.  
“So,” Jimmy says, putting both palms down flat on the table top, like he’s calling a meeting to order. “It t-t-turns out Tweek can fly.”  
“What?! No!” Tweek jumps to his feet, only for Jimmy to wrap his arm around Tweek’s shoulders and push him right back down into his seat. Damn, Jimmy is _strong._ “I, I told Scott already, I don’t remember any of that stuff!”  
“Yeah, that’s w-what you told _Scott,_ ” Jimmy says, fixing Tweek with what would have been a firm glare if his lazy eye hadn’t picked that moment to slide. “But we’re your f-f-friends, man!”  
“We just want to help,” Token says, leaning forwards eagerly. “Jimmy and I were talking about it last night, and even if _you’re_ not sure how you did it, we’ve got some theories.”  
_Oh, this’ll be good,_ Craig drawls, leaning back and tucking his arms behind his head. _They probably think you’ve got psychic powers or some shit. Like that girl on Stranger Things._  
“Okay?” At least this isn’t as bad as lying. They’d never believe him, anyway, if Tweek just told them the truth.  
Just then, the waitress brings their drinks over – Token’s latte, black coffee for Tweek, and an orange juice for Jimmy. “Thanks,” Jimmy says, taking a sip. He’s almost quivering with eagerness for her to leave.  
“So, Tweek,” Token says, picking up the packet of brown sugar that came with his latte and gently twisting it open over the cup. “Has anything like that ever happened before?”  
Tweek has a sip of coffee – it’s not fantastic, but not quite as bad as he’d expected. He thinks about Craig levitating that pen in class. About how he knocked all those takeout cups on the floor. None of those things count, do they? Not compared to Tweek himself floating in the air.  
“No,” he says, and forces himself to look first Token in the eyes, and then Jimmy. “Never. And, and it wasn’t on purpose, or anything,” he adds, looking down at his hands and forcing his fingers to uncurl. “It just sort of… happened.”  
_That’s one way of putting it,_ Craig says, as he flickers into a new position. Now, he’s leaning across the table, holding his own hands out, right above Tweek’s. It takes him a second to understand what Craig is trying to show him; the illusion that they’re holding hands. Just like last night, when they were dancing without touching. He can feel himself start to smile.  
“There’s a lot we don’t know about the human brain,” Token is saying, in a tone that’s probably meant to be calming. “Like, there are so many parts of it we’re not even _using._ But, well – you’ve been under a lot of stress lately, right?”  
Tweek almost laughs. “You, you could say that, yeah.”  
“W-we were thinking,” Jimmy says, picking up from Token’s cue, “That m-m-maybe that stress caused you to use those p-parts of your brain. As a k-kind of self-defence?”  
_Hah,_ Craig says, and suddenly he’s leaning back, smacking his left fist into his right palm. _I love it when I’m right!_ He’s already forgotten about holding Tweek’s hands.  
“Really?” Tweek fights down his first impulse, since he wants them to think he’s taking this seriously – laughing out loud would be bad. And also his second impulse, which is to ask what those two have been watching. Or smoking.  
“It could also have something to do with the pills they put you on,” Token hazards, and now, Tweek really does have to choke down a laugh.  
_What, as in, “Known side effects include telekinesis and flying,"_ Craig says, incredulous. _Jesus, for two of the smartest kids in school, this is pretty dumb._  
“The pills just stop me from panicking and pulling my hair out,” Tweek says, and hopes he doesn’t sound like he’s explaining Santa Claus to a child. “They’re, uh, tranquilizers? So if anything, they’d _stop_ the stress from building up. I don’t even take both of them anymore,” he goes on, realizing his mistake at exactly the same time that Craig smacks his palm against his forehead and says, _Dude._  
“So maybe him stopping one of the pills was the _trigger,_ ” Token says to Jimmy, who nods eagerly.  
Thankfully, that’s when their waitress decides to show up with their pancakes and French toast. Tweek has never been so happy to see a stack of pancakes in his life. He realizes he’s actually starving, too.  
“I d-declare a greed b-break,” Jimmy says, accepting his plate of French toast from the waitress. “Thanks,” he adds, grinning at her and _somehow_ getting a smile back.  
“Greed break,” Tweek asks, leaning back in his seat. He’s wondering if Craig would be able to taste the pancakes, if he possesses him while he’s eating. Would he even want that? For all Tweek knows, Craig didn’t even _like_ pancakes – and it’s not as if he can ask about that right now.  
“It’s something Clyde’s mom used to say,” Token says, smiling like he’s remembering something funny. “When we were all too busy eating to talk. You could really tell when she wasn’t thinking in English.”  
“We’re honouring her m-memory by keeping it in the v-v-v-vernacular.” Jimmy winks at Tweek.  
The pancakes are good, and being off the hook is even better. Craig is doing this super annoying thing, though, where he’s watching Tweek eat. Very closely. Outright staring, like he’s counting how many times the other boy chews each mouthful. It’s _so_ damn annoying, but of course Tweek can’t _say_ anything – and that’s what Craig is counting on, isn’t it. On pure spite, he starts chewing for longer, cutting smaller pieces from his stack, glaring at Craig whenever the other two seem to busy eating to notice. Craig only seems to find it funnier this way – did he used to do this shit to his little sister, Tweek wonders. Knowing Craig; probably.  
Under these conditions, it’s not surprising that Token and Jimmy polish their food off before Tweek. They’re obviously itching to bring what happened in gym back up, but well, a greed break has been declared and apparently those are sacred.  
“So,” Jimmy says after a little while, “W-what about Nicole?”  
“Nicole told me she’s happy to wait,” Token replies, suddenly serious, “Until everything’s… over. That she’s fine with just hanging out in school for now.”  
“Wow,” Jimmy says, straightening the salt shaker Tweek knocked over. “I’m jealous, man.” He sinks back against the backrest of their booth, sighing. “I w-want a girlfriend like that. I d-don’t w-w-want it to be over, though,” he adds, almost too quiet for Tweek to hear.  
“Me neither, obviously.” Token folds his hands on the table-top, his long, slim fingers intersecting. “But we’ve got to face the facts.”  
“Four w-weeks is supposed to be the c-cut-off,” Jimmy agrees, shoulders sagging.  
_What the hell are they even talking about,_ Craig demands, sounding almost annoyed at being left out. At least it stops him from doing his annoying count-every-chew shit, so that’s a pleasant side-effect. But, Tweek is _so_ not about to ask – he knows when something’s none of his business, and this definitely isn’t.  
“So, is there someone _you_ like, then,” Tweek says instead, deliberately angling the question at Jimmy. “In, in school, I mean,” he adds, taking a sip of his coffee – at exactly the same time that Jimmy blurts out, “Leo’s mom!”  
The whole mouthful goes right up his nose, and Tweek ends up spraying the table-top with coffee. Just as well he’s the only one still eating!  
“You like… Leo Stotch’s _mother,_ ” Token says, eyes widening in shock.  
“No, of c-c-course not,” Jimmy snaps, raising a finger to point, “B-but that’s her! On TV!”  
Tweek’s not been paying much attention to the TV that’s been mounted above the counter, and Token’s had his back to it this whole time. Now Tweek can see the logo of the local channel up in the right-hand corner; they appear to be filming in some kind of assembly hall. “Is that… the airport Hilton,” he says, asking no-one in particular.  
“You’re right,” Jimmy says, snapping his fingers. “K-keep watching, they’re b-bound to zoom in on her again!”  
On the screen, Tweek can make out a big, heaving group of people who all appear to be applauding in perfect sync. The camera cuts to a podium, where a man is walking back and forth – microphone in one hand, while the other seems to point straight at the camera. And then – bam! – it cuts to a side-shot of what is most definitely Linda Stotch, with glazed-over eyes and a blissful smile on her face, clapping along with the rest of them.  
“I’m gonna get them to turn the sound up,” Token says, as he jumps from his seat and straight _through_ Craig, who flickers for a second. He almost looks like he’s shivering.  
_Rude,_ Craig says, and winks at Tweek.  
Tweek busies himself yanking some napkins out of the dispenser and wiping down the table-top, trying to hide how he’s smiling for no apparent reason. Suddenly, the sound from the TV blares on, loud enough to almost make him jump out of his own skin: “… an apostle of the Lord! Here to guide you on up to those pearly gates! Can I have a hallelujah?”  
“Maybe she found out about her husband,” Tweek says, jerking his head up at the screen. Someone’s adjusting the volume now, thank God, but it’s still obnoxiously loud.  
“H-him and his _lover,_ you m-mean?” There’s not an ounce of pity in Jimmy’s voice.  
“Clyde told you guys about that, huh,” Tweek says, taking another sip of his sub-par IHOP coffee. “I, I thought he might’ve made it up, only then Stotch told me it all happened before.”  
“Oh, Clyde w-wouldn’t lie,” Jimmy says, and though he rolls his eyes, he sounds fond. “That wouldn’t sit w-well with his v-v-version of Jesus.”  
_Don’t be an asshole, Jimmy,_ Craig mutters, and flips Jimmy off.  
“…I’ll put him on now,” Token is saying, as he returns to their table with a jug of tap-water and his phone pressed against one ear. “Here, Tweek – it’s your mom.” Craig quickly flickers out of sight when Token starts to scoot back inside their booth. “And I brought some water for… You know.”  
“Thanks,” Tweek says, carefully taking the iPhone from Token’s hand. Craig reappears at Tweek’s elbow, almost like he wants to listen in. “Mom?”  
“Hey kiddo, are you feeling better?” Mom must be out on the street, because Tweek can hear traffic in the background.  
“Much better,” Tweek tells her, covering his other ear to try and block out that TV-preacher. “We went out for pancakes. Jimmy’s here, too. _And_ I’m gonna take another Xanax now,” he adds, before she can ask.  
“Good, good,” Mom says, and she sounds relieved. “I, ah, kind of snuck out to go shopping,” she adds, and the way she sounds the tiniest bit guilty makes Tweek snort. Mom is just like a big kid sometimes. “After morning meditation, the world’s most fabulous yoga instructor showed up, and talked your dad into trying aerial yoga,” Mom goes on. “Let’s just say the invitation wasn’t extended to me? So I, ah, literally left your father hanging.”  
Tweek can’t help but laugh. “Mom, that’s awful. Is he even gonna be able to drive you guys home?”  
“Oh, I’m sure it won’t get _really_ bad until tomorrow morning,” Mom says, with a little chuckle.  
Token’s filled up a glass of water, and all of a sudden, he’s trying to press it on Tweek. Is he insane?! “Dude,” Tweek hisses, edging away from him, “I didn’t mean _right_ now! Don’t make me hold your iPhone _and_ a glass of water, okay?!”  
“Tweek’s got a p-p-point,” Jimmy says, taking the glass for himself.  
Token just laughs and shakes his head. “But I’ve got insurance!”  
“…drove past a shop that had a mannequin wearing a dress with coffee beans on it,” Mom is saying, “And that darn dress kept popping into my thoughts during meditation. So that’s where I’m headed. But is there anything you’ve been wanting? I can’t just go out buying things for myself.”  
Tweek tips his head back, closes his eyes while he thinks. “You know what, Mom,” he says, “I’ve already got everything I could possibly want.”  
On the other end, his mother groans. “Then don’t complain if I get you a, a lemon presser,” she says, though obviously, she’s teasing. “Or a hat,” she adds, knowing how much Tweek hates wearing them.  
“Aw, Mom…”  
“That’s what happens when you make me think too hard! But Tweek,” Mom’s tone suddenly turns serious, “Just take it easy today, all right? In case it really was a virus.”  
“I will, Mom. Honest.” It’s an easy enough promise to make, Tweek thinks, as he says goodbye and hangs up. It’s not like he’s got any crazy plans for the day; all he wants to do is hang out with Craig.  
Up there on the TV-screen, the preacher is getting really worked up: “You don’t need a church! You don’t even need it to be a Sunday! All you need; is to believe, can I have an Amen?” Again, the camera focuses on Linda Stotch, hands clasped under her chin, as she chants, “Amen”. Tweek can’t help but feel a little bit sorry for her, as he takes the one empty glass from the far end of the table, holding it out for Token to fill.  
“Thanks.” Tweek takes a quick sip before he pulls the tube of Xanax from the inner pocket of his parka. The one that’s right above where Craig’s hat sits; wadded up into a lump. He didn’t want to keep anything in the pockets of his sweatpants; even though they’re deep, he’d be too worried about stuff falling out.  
“Because God is here with us today,” the self-proclaimed apostle drones on, “Right here, at the airport Hilton! So join me now, ladies and gentlemen, join me in a prayer for –” Abruptly, the sound is switched off, cutting the apostle off mid-sentence.  
“Aww,” Token says, disappointed, but Tweek is actually a little bit relieved.  
“W-w-wait a second,” Jimmy says, holding his hand up. “Tweek, what w-would Leo Stotch have to t-t-talk to you about?”  
Tweek is saved from answering by their waitress, who’s brought their bill. “We had to turn it down,” she says unapologetically, “People were complaining.”  
“That white lady they keep zooming in on,” Token says, grinning, “Her son’s in our class.”  
The waitress snorts. “I hope you all won’t give him too hard of a time about it,” she says, eyes shining, as she puts the little plate with their bill down right in front of Tweek. He snatches it up before Token’s even had time to raise his hand.  
“I’d _never,_ ” Tweek blurts out, surprising even himself by how forceful those two words sound. “I, I mean,” he says, digging through his parka pockets for his wallet. His cheeks are burning, as he counts out the money and rounds it up generously, since the waitress was so nice. But, he can’t not say this – no matter how dorky it might come out. “I’d never bully someone. Never, ever.”  
“That’s good, hon,” the waitress says, and though Tweek can’t bring himself to look at her, her voice has softened. “You should come again soon,” she adds, before she walks off, tray tucked under one arm.  
“Tweek…” Token sounds embarrassed, all of a sudden.  
“Stotch was right about _one_ thing,” Tweek says, and even though his voice is trembling, he keeps right on talking. “It’s got to stop somewhere. So it may as well stop with us, right? Because they can do what they want to me, but…” he forces himself to look up, right into Token’s eyes, “But I will never let myself turn into _them._ ”  
Token lets out a deep sigh. “No _wonder_ Craig was in love with you.”  
“What?!” Tweek jerks back from the table so fast; he smacks his head against the padded backrest of the booth hard enough that he sees sparks. Shit. Is it possible to re-concuss yourself?  
_You bastard,_ Craig growls, flickering out of view. Seconds later, Token’s glass of water tips over; and somehow manages to soak _only_ his crotch.  
“Aw, _man,_ ” Token groans, yanking almost all the napkins out of the dispenser at once. “It’s gonna look like I peed myself!”  
_Serves him right,_ Craig whispers, right next to Tweek’s ear, while on his other side, Jimmy is manfully trying not to laugh himself to death. 

“Th-thanks for breakfast, Tweek,” Jimmy says, ducking under Token’s arm as the other boy holds the door of the IHOP open.  
“You really didn’t have to pay for all of us, though,” Token says, and he sounds a little embarrassed. Like he was expecting to pick up that check, and almost feels a little cheated.  
“My dad gave me some money,” Tweek says, shrugging, “To pay you back for the petrol. And since you wouldn’t let me…” The plastic bag Token gave him to carry his filthy jeans in slaps against his right leg with every step. _As if_ Tweek didn’t owe him a meal. As if.  
“Well, thanks, Tweek. Now, why don’t you swing by the shoe store and say hi to Clyde? He’s probably bored,” Token says, like this idea just occurred to him. Hah. Tweek knows Token way too well by now to fall for _that._ The IHOP shares its parking lot with the old mall, so you can just walk right over there – which is clearly what Token has in mind. Because it turns out Token and Jimmy have got somewhere they need to be, after breakfast. Somewhere Tweek clearly isn’t welcome. And he hasn’t even _tried_ to angle for an invite.  
“W-we can totally show you w-where it is,” Jimmy offers. It almost feels like he wants to make sure Tweek really goes in there, and doesn’t sneak off down to the bus stop instead.  
_Come on, let’s go see Clyde,_ Craig is saying, craning his neck over Tweek’s shoulder and looking at him hopefully. It’s not just Tweek’s imagination, is it – it really seems to help Craig stay more focused, more solid, when they spend time around his friends. As if it’s reinforcing his _idea_ of himself, reminding him who he’s supposed to be.  
“I don’t even feel sick anymore,” Tweek protests weakly, but he’s already given up. 

As soon as they walk into the shop, there’s one shelf, on the side, that immediately catches Tweek’s eye. Converse, in all the colours of the rainbow, lined up in rows. Like candy. And right in the middle, there’s a green pair. He’s suddenly reminded of that picture in Token’s room. Would Mr Donovan even remember his promise of free shoes…? Clyde looks up from assisting a customer, and gives them all wave and a big grin. He’s wearing a name badge pinned to his black polo-shirt, underneath the shop-logo that’s embroidered on it in red thread. But, that seems to be it as far as store uniforms are concerned. Mr Donovan, emerging from the back room with three boxes stacked on his arm, smiles warmly as soon as he sees them. He’s not wearing a polo shirt, but then, he doesn’t exactly need to – just like Dad, he _emanates_ this sense of “Welcome-to-my-store”. And he _does_ have the name badge.  
“Hello, boys,” he says, “Are you bringing Tweek along today, then?”  
“No, we’re ah, we’re leaving him here to entertain Clyde,” Token says, and he has the decency to look a little bit embarrassed – he _is_ making it sound like he’s handing his little brother over to the baby-sitter, after all.  
“How thoughtful of you,” Mr Donovan says, and he doesn’t sound sarcastic at all.  
“Ugh, Token.” Tweek spins around, to see that the plump black-haired girl who said Token’s name in like, the rudest tone ever, is also wearing a shop badge and a black polo shirt. But, she’s paired them with a long black skirt that’s got lacy panels stitched into it, and a hem that’s frayed from getting stepped on all the time. She’s also wearing scuffed black DocMartens, and elbow-length, spider-web gloves. And way, way too much eye shadow. Her name’s long, and so the font on her badge is tiny. But if he squints, Tweek can just make out that it’s Henrietta. What, did Token used to date her? It seems unlikely. If Tweek was going to be mean, he’d say that Token is way out of this girl’s league.  
“Um,” Tweek asks her, “Do you hate black people or something?”  
_Hah, dude,_ Craig says, somewhere out of sight, while Jimmy stifles a giggle.  
“Ugh, _no_.” Henrietta sounds deeply offended, as she turns to glare at Tweek. “But the last thing I need to see when I’m working on a Saturday is a walking, talking J.Crew ad.”  
“It’s not a race thing,” Token says, rolling his eyes. “It’s a conformist thing, apparently.”  
“D-do you hate me, too,” Jimmy asks, in a deceptively polite tone. His bottom lip is quivering, and Tweek knows him well enough by now to see that any second, Jimmy might just lose his shit completely.  
“I hate you _marginally less,_ ” Henrietta replies, deadly serious. She jerks her chin at Tweek. “And who the hell is this?”  
“Customer service, Henrietta,” Mr Donovan says, walking past them with that customer Clyde was helping in tow. He doesn’t sound pissed at all though – more like he’s trying not to laugh, while he rings up their purchase on the till. Jimmy snorts and buries his face in the back of Token’s jacket, shoulders shaking.  
“He’s just a fellow conformist,” Token says, and from the way the muscles in his neck are tensing up, he doesn’t find this funny _at all_. “So leave him alone.”  
“Huh,” the girl says, looking Tweek up and down. “You don’t _look_ like a conformist.”  
“He’s really not,” Clyde says, almost proudly, as he joins them and slips his arm around Tweek’s shoulders. “Tweek’s been to _mental hospital._ ”  
“Dude, come on,” Tweek hisses, elbowing Clyde in the ribs.  
“Tweek, huh.” Henrietta says, and her eyebrows shoot up to disappear under her stringy fringe.  
“ _And_ he fought Cartman and McCormick with me,” Clyde goes on, like he didn’t even feel that jab. “He even instagrammed himself making out with a skeleton!”  
“Wait, what?! I posted that?!”  
_Dude, don’t you remember,_ Craig drawls, _We did that last night after you got off the phone with Clyde. I even came up with the caption for you,_ and _I reminded you to tag Jimmy._  
“Oh Jesus,” Tweek wails, frantically patting all the pockets of his parka until he finds his phone. But Henrietta’s already got her own phone out – it’s got a black phone cover with a silver crucifix sort of mounted on it; where would you even buy something like that? – and she’s found his profile before Tweek’s even managed to open the app.  
“Nice,” she says, before she holds her phone up so Mr Donovan can see, too.  
“It’s very… artistic,” Clyde’s dad says diplomatically.  
The caption Craig picked was _“Lovely bones”_ , followed by the winking kiss emoji and the skull emoji, and then, _Photo by @JimmyValmer._ Seven people have liked it already, seven people! There are lots of comments, too:  
@Clyde_donovan0410: _My only question is, was it the male or female skeleton? XD_  
@JimmyValmer: _Male XDDD_  
@scott_malkinson: _Dude I don’t know if I’m more impressed or worried_  
@TokenBlack: _This is some pretty dark shit, Tweek._  
@daniels_nicoleee: _Tweek, please DM me if you need to talk. DON’T do anything rash!!_  
Oh God. Oh shit. “It kind of… really makes it look like I want to kill myself, huh,” Tweek says, with the brightest smile he can muster.  
“You c-c-could say that, yeah.”  
“Yeah, but he totally doesn’t,” Clyde says, like this is the most obvious thing in the world. “Not anymore! Right, Tweek?”  
“Of, of course not!”  
“We need to leave now,” Token says, pointedly looking at his watch, “But you’re in charge of Tweek and his concussion. Which he’s still got, so don’t let him ride the ladder, okay?”  
“Okay, Mom,” Clyde says, reaching out to clasp Token’s arm and pull him into some kind of bro-hug. He says something else, up close to Token’s ear. The only part of it Tweek can catch is, “I’ll try to be there for six,” whatever _that_ means.  
“Ride the ladder,” Tweek asks, as soon as Jimmy and Token are out of earshot.  
“I’ll show you in a second,” Clyde promises, winking.  
“They’re loyal, for a couple of conformist assholes,” Henrietta says, walking back into what must be the store room with the two boxes of shoes the customer didn’t buy. “I’ll give ‘em that. Oh,” she turns to Tweek, “I just followed you, by the way. You’re the only friend of Clyde’s I’ve never wanted to set on fire, so…” she shrugs, and Tweek thinks she _might_ just be kidding.  
“Here, let me take those.” Clyde holds his arms out for the boxes, then stacks them the same way his dad did, balanced on his left hand so his right arm’s completely free. “Thanks, Henrietta. C’mon Tweek, I’ll give you the grand tour."  
Clyde pushes the door open, clearly waiting for Tweek to go in first. "Henrietta’s really great,” Clyde goes on, as soon as she’s out of earshot. “Like, almost nobody gets along with her? But she’s awesome, once you get to know her.”  
“It just takes a _while_ to get to know her?” Tweek looks up at Clyde, who grins and shrugs.  
“Something like that.”


	12. The Cinderella test

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At some point, I realised that there was no way I could write the perfect version of this chapter, and that I'd better try to write the version that would _work_. So here you go. I hope it was worth the wait.
> 
> PS I FORGOT: This is the song Jimmy's playing on his phone in the last scene and I may be a little obsessed with it:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kl6Ery4Q_uE

One month ago. A lifetime ago – quite literally, in Craig’s case. Biting wind, shaking legs, a view of tiny cars and grey concrete that had made his throat seize up. The world’s loudest clang, as the door to the roof slammed open against the wall. And a voice, screaming his name.  
“Tweek! Tweek, get back from there!”  
He’d turned his head, almost dismissing that voice as wishful thinking. And McCormick had let him, because of course he was never going to _push_ Tweek off the roof. There was a tacit, wordless agreement between them that McCormick could only _guide,_ but not actually _touch_ him. The line between suicide and murder had been as thin as a hair. But it had still been there, silently drawn out between them.  
He’d thought it was just his imagination, but no – Craig really had followed them up here. He looked more scared than Tweek had ever seen him. You’d almost think Craig was scared enough to cry. “Tweek.” His voice had been shaking. “You don’t really want to do that. Do you?”  
Tweek had thought about it, for just a few endless seconds. He’d thought about how Mom put on Moon River after they’d closed up the night before, and made him waltz her across the shop floor. He’d thought of Dad, writing him his annual fake sick note to get him out of sports day at school, winking as he said, “They’ve had a whole year to forget about the last one.” And he’d thought of Craig – a rail-thin nine-year-old in hospital pyjamas, one eye swollen shut from a punch Tweek had thrown. Craig, reaching a trembling hand out between their beds, saying, “I don’t hate you or anything.” Even then, Craig’s hands had been bigger than Tweek’s.  
No. No, he really didn’t want to do this at all.  
Slowly at first, then faster and faster, Tweek had shaken his head in response.  
“Then you don’t have to,” Craig had said. Simple as that. “Come here, okay?” Craig had held his hand out; just like that time when they were kids. And Tweek – choking, sobbing – had turned away from the edge of the roof, the lip of the abyss, and run. Barrelling straight into Craig’s chest. He’d felt Craig’s arms close protectively around him; and Craig had been shaking just as hard as he was. That had been a surprise; Tweek had always thought Craig wasn’t afraid of anything.  
McCormick had whistled then; a single drawn-out note. “Damn,” he’d said, “What a waste.”  
“We’re leaving now,” Craig had drawled, as though McCormick had never spoken at all. As though he didn’t even exist. “Come on, Tweek. Everything’s gonna be fine.”  
It had been the biggest lie in the world; but of course Craig hadn’t known that at the time. 

“Well, if they were shoe-brands, Xanax would be a sneaker,” Clyde is saying, as he shoves the second shoebox back into the gap on the shelf. He’s standing about halfway up that ladder Token was talking about. It’s bright blue, taller than a grown man, and on wheels. It probably comes in really handy in here, since the long but narrow storage room is literally packed from floor to ceiling. “And Anfranil…” Clyde climbs back down with practiced ease, “I guess that sounds more orthopedic. Cork bottom, sunken arch support. “Wanna try?”  
“What?!” The sudden change of subject takes Tweek by surprise.  
“The ladder! You’re light enough that we could get some _proper_ speed going!”  
“I’ll be fine,” Tweek says hurriedly. Token’s right, he should at least try to be careful.  
_Aw, it’s fun_. Craig sounds disappointed. Tweek can just picture Craig and Clyde as kids, hanging off this thing and laughing as it shoots towards the far end of the room. No thanks.  
“Some other time, then,” Clyde shrugs. “Break room’s down there! The shop’s kind of circular,” he explains, as Tweek pulls open the door marked “Staff”. There’s a small room with a sagging red couch, a fridge and a microwave. There’s a kettle plugged in next to the sink, which has two mugs and a bowl in it. “You can leave your stuff here, if you want,” Clyde says, nodding at the plastic bag Tweek’s still carrying. “Just come back here if you want to make yourself a coffee or something. But you have to use the entrance behind the till, okay? That door’s the toilet, and Dad’s office is through there,” Clyde jabs his thumb over his shoulder, at the door on the far wall. “And _that_ room’s got a door that leads straight into the shop. His computer’s in there, the one he does the accounting and payslips on? So that door needs to stay locked.”  
“So that’s what you meant,” Tweek says, hanging his plastic bag from one of the coat-hooks mounted on the back of the door. “When you said this place is circular.” He leaves his parka on, though he’s had to unzip it by now. He can always tie it around his waist, if it gets too warm. Craig’s hat stays with him. 

Mr Donovan and Henrietta are both standing at the till, chatting, when Tweek and Clyde come back out. From the way they shut up as soon as they see him, Tweek gets a pretty good idea who they were talking about. He doesn’t even _care_ about that, though, because how are Clyde and his dad even supposed to make a living like this?! The store is frighteningly empty. They’re really not in a position to be giving away shoes, Tweek thinks, just as Mr Donovan says, “Tweek! Do you know what kind of shoes you’d like?”  
“Uh,” Tweek says, and bites his lip.  
_Catholic guilt,_ Craig reminds him, whispering over his shoulder.  
“Green ones,” Tweek blurts out. “Like what they all have,” he adds, jerking his head at Clyde when Mr Donovan looks confused. “Converse!”  
“Kelly green or olive green,” Clyde’s dad says, like this is no problem at all. “If you want Converse, though, we’ll need to make you some insoles!” He suddenly squats down behind the till, and Tweek can hear him rummaging around on the shelves, muttering, “Damn it.”  
Clyde grins. “Henrietta, did you move the Dynamic Blues,” he asks; whatever that means, and Henrietta folds her arms underneath her breasts and gives him a look of pure, undiluted scorn.  
“That sounds like a band,” Tweek mutters, and he only means for Craig to hear it, but well. Sound carries in an empty shoe store.  
“No, that’s the Moody Blues,” Mr Donovan says, peeking up from behind the till. “I’ve got the Yellow Game ones on the bottom shelf here, though.”  
“We should probably keep them all in the one place,” Clyde says, like he’s only just thought of this. “Don’t you think, Henrietta,” he adds, as he looks over at her and winks.  
“Dynamic Blues are in overstock at the back,” Henrietta replies, rolling her eyes. “Like, super _close_ to the actual machine? It made sense at the time.” Sure, she _sounds_ all annoyed, but still. There’s something about the way her gaze lingers on Clyde for just a _little_ too long that makes Tweek think, Ah. No wonder she wants to work here.  
“Put the Yellow Games there, then,” Mr Donovan tells Clyde, passing him a cardboard box across the counter.  
“Sure, Dad.” Clyde tucks the box under one arm. “So anyways,” he says, planting his hand between Tweek’s shoulder blades, steering him towards the big machine at the back of the shop floor. It looks a bit like one of those speedy check-in terminals they have in airports, only it’s got a transparent platform attached to it at floor level. “Weren’t you going to Denver today?”  
“I threw up,” Tweek says, deliberately skipping over the details. “I think I was just carsick.”  
“Oh well, long as you don’t puke on my sister at the wedding.”  
“Hey!” Tweek tries to sound annoyed, but it’s impossible.  
“Look, I know Clydette’s no beauty,” Clyde’s saying, as seriously as he can manage, “But her feelings get hurt, you know?”  
“What, people puke on her _that_ often?”  
“All the time, dude. Anyway, you need to climb up on this thing…”  
What follows is like something out of a science fiction movie, as Clyde measures the length of Tweek’s strides, the weight-distribution on his feet… Tweek loses track of what it’s all for after a while, but at least Clyde seems to be having fun. “I haven’t done this in ages,” he mutters at one point, like he doesn’t even realise he’s speaking out loud. Tweek can only guess – in about a month, right? He doesn’t want to ask.  
All the while, Craig watches them, leaning against that door to Mr Donovan’s office. His left foot, which is supposed to be propping him up, actually goes through it. Craig doesn’t seem to realize. _I’m glad, you know,_ he suddenly says, completely out of nowhere. _Sure, I was a little jealous at first, but…_ He smiles, and Tweek suddenly feels a stab of something in his heart that might just be fear. _But you’ll take care of my friends for me, won’t you, Tweek,_ Craig says, nodding to himself. What the hell is he talking about?  
“Okay, so check this out.” Clyde pulls two long, pancake-flat blue insoles out of a box. “Stand on these? Nah, they’re too short, let’s get the size up…”  
Tweek looks over at Craig, while Clyde is bending over the insoles, and mouths, _What?_  
_Nevermind,_ Craig tells him, and though he smiles, it doesn’t seem to reach his eyes.  
Once Clyde’s happy with the size – even though the insoles are way longer than Tweek’s actual feet – Clyde slides one of them into a little slot at the bottom of the machine, the way you’d put a credit card into an ATM. He flicks a switch, presses a few buttons on the screen… and then the sole comes out, and suddenly it’s got a completely different shape. It’s rock solid, too!  
“Now for the Cinderella test,” Clyde says, and when Tweek only blinks at him, he laughs. “That means give me your foot, okay? Your right foot.” Clyde presses the insole up against the bottom of Tweek’s bare foot, and it fits scarily well.  
“Wow,” Tweek breathes, and for a second, he forgets about how Craig was being all cryptic just now. “How does it even _do_ that?”  
“Science, man,” Clyde replies, with a lop-sided grin, and it takes Tweek a second to realise that he’s making fun. “Hey, don’t _hit_ me with it! They’re not _that_ solid!”  
_So if I disappear,_ Craig says, and suddenly, he’s standing right next to Clyde, _Then you’ll all be okay._  
Tweek’s arm passes straight _through_ him as the insole connects with Clyde’s shoulder. Electricity, or something like it, flares all the way from Tweek’s wrist and up to the nape of his neck. “What,” Tweek yells, glaring at Craig. So frightened that it’s making him angry. “What the hell did you just say?!”  
“Uh, I only meant the insole could snap,” Clyde is saying, and he looks thoroughly confused. “Dude, are you feeling okay?”  
_I just got this feeling,_ Craig tells him, right before he flickers from Clyde’s side to Tweek’s, _That I might not get to stick around for much longer._ The blue light is all over him now, curling around each strand of hair that sticks out from under his hat. Trailing in streams from his fingers, as he stretches his hand towards Tweek’s face. Tweek’s breath hitches in his throat.  
“Let me just print the other sole for you,” Clyde is saying, as he slides the second one into the machine. As if he’s decided to ignore how weird Tweek was just being, like you’d ignore someone farting in polite company. It’s jarring, how normal Clyde sounds. “Then when you’re trying the Converse on, we’ll put these in first.”  
Tweek wordlessly climbs down from the platform. Blinking furiously, breathing through his nose. Stooping to pick his socks up, from where he’s draped them over his old trainers. He’s _had_ his Xanax, he’s not going to panic. He’s _not_.  
“Which colour green do you want, anyway? Or do you want to try both? Tweek?”  
Sitting down heavily on the floor, Tweek starts pulling his old shoes on. But tying shoelaces isn’t easy, when his hands are shaking and his vision is starting to swim. He needs to get out of here, before he starts to cry, but it’s a race against time.  
_Aw, don’t be sad,_ Craig is saying. _I’m still here, Tweek! I’m still here._  
“Tweek, what’s wrong?” Clyde crouches down next to him, hesitantly placing his hand on Tweek’s shoulder and giving it a careful shake. Such a stupid question. _Everything_ is wrong. “You can tell me, okay? Even if it’s weird. I promise I won’t laugh.”  
“Okay.” Tweek draws a shuddering breath. It’s not like he _can_ tell Clyde, but… “Are, are Catholics allowed to, to believe in reincarnation,” he asks, choking the words out between sobs.  
“Probably not,” Clyde replies, surprisingly calmly. If he’s weirded out by the question, he doesn’t let it show. That big hand of his just opens and closes over Tweek’s shoulder, again and again. “But nobody tells me what to think. So sure, I guess it’s possible.”  
“My mom says,” Tweek forces the words out through his swelling throat, “That if people really care about each other, their souls’ll find each other again. When…” he draws a thin, piping breath, “When they’re reborn, you know?” The more he talks, the easier it gets. To get used to the idea that it might all be over soon. Because of course this thing was too good to last. “So maybe when you get married to Bebe,” he goes on, pausing to wipe his nose on his sleeve, “Or some other girl, then maybe Craig will come back as one of your kids?”  
Tweek cautiously smiles up at Clyde… only for that smile to stiffen and freeze when he sees the crestfallen look on Clyde’s face. “What,” Clyde says, “You think…?” He stands up abruptly, and Tweek shrinks back, because Clyde sounds almost angry. “Come with me.” His hand closes around Tweek’s wrist, and Clyde yanks him to his feet, drags him back towards the cash desk like a reluctant dog.  
“Is he okay,” Mr Donovan exclaims, because Tweek is crying properly now, in big, heaving sobs. Now he’s gone and pissed Clyde off, and he’s not even sure _how_. Clyde _did_ say he didn’t mind about reincarnation, but Tweek knows that what people say and what they think doesn’t always add up.  
“Does he look okay,” Clyde says, and his voice is almost as flat as Craig’s. “I need the keys to the Rabbit.”  
Mr Donovan frowns. “I don’t like you driving on your own yet,” he begins, but something about the way Clyde is staring at him seems to change his mind. Mr Donovan sighs. “All right, then.” He digs the car keys out from the left-hand pocket of his slacks, and puts them down on the till desk. They clatter against the wooden surface. Tweek didn’t notice it, the last time Clyde drove the Rabbit, but there’s a key chain attached to them; a single tiny, white and blue wooden clog. “Just promise me you’ll be careful.”  
“I’ll be careful,” Clyde says, as his hand closes over the keys. 

By now, Tweek’s hands shake so badly that he can’t even get his seatbelt fastened. Clyde winds up reaching past Tweek’s chest and doing it _for_ him, while Tweek snorts his snot back up his nose and reminds himself that at _least_ he’s not hyperventilating.  
The clog keychain swings from side to side as Clyde drives, and Tweek tries his best to focus _only_ on that, to let that swaying hypnotise him into being calm. Calmer. Just a little less frantic.  
_Tweek,_ Craig is saying, _Please stop freaking out?_ He’s given up on maintaining any kind of shape for now, he’s just blue light, wrapping himself around Tweek’s arms. Phasing himself through Tweek’s torso, making him shiver from the currents of power, or _life,_ or whatever it is, running through him. Maybe he’s trying to do that thing again, that thing he did on Tuesday when Tweek had a meltdown in the school hallway. Maybe he’s trying to hug Tweek from the inside.  
They drive in silence for the longest time – out of the mall’s parking lot, through Downtown and onto the main road. Finally, Clyde says, “Remember the day you tried to kill yourself? How your desk was all messed up that morning?” It’s like he’s throwing that question out like a life preserver, to stop Tweek from drowning in his own panic.  
“Uh, uh- _huh,_ ” Tweek replies, because how could he forget? That tingly silence in the classroom, when he first walked in. He hadn’t understood why, but of course they’d been waiting for him. Cartman had even taken his picture, just when the crowd had parted and Tweek had first seen it. The snickers, the _Oooh’s,_ the flash of Cartman’s phone camera. His chest going numb, all the heat draining from his face. _Fag boy,_ they’d written, next to a wobbly drawing of a penis. _Suck on this._ So many drawings, so many hateful things written on and around them. He remembers thinking; _At least Craig isn’t here yet._ Because Craig seeing this would have been worse than the whole class seeing.  
“After the ambulance took you away,” Clyde is saying, “Craig was so pissed. He said either he’d go kill McCormick, or we’d all clean your desk up. So that’s what we did.”  
Tweek turns his head ever so slightly, risks a quick look at Clyde. At his face, almost as blank as it was on Monday, before he’d started talking again. At his hands, clutching the steering-wheel hard, shaking. He tries to imagine it; those four leaning over each other, shoulders bumping, arms overlapping. Washing away all the slurs and drawings, all that hate.  
“We were gonna go visit you, too,” Clyde goes on. “Craig said he wanted to record your statement on his phone, so he could go to the police about McCormick. I think what he _really_ wanted, though, was to make sure you were okay. But the next day…” his voice breaks on that last word, and for a second, Tweek thinks Clyde might be about to cry. They’ve pulled into an underpass now, which leads into to a parking house. Tweek’s got no idea where they are. “The next day, Craig got hit by that damn pink car. And it _was_ pink,” Clyde adds, under his breath. He reaches out the window, to press a button mounted in the orange and white boom-gate. “No matter what Jimmy says.” He pulls his hand, now holding a ticket, back inside. That ticket goes in the Rabbit’s front window, as soon as Clyde’s found them a parking spot.  
“I see,” Tweek whispers. These boys – they’d been his friends before he even knew about it.  
“Come on, Tweek!” Clyde’s out of the Rabbit and slamming the car door shut before the engine’s even stopped humming. He barely waits for Tweek to get out, making a beeline for the elevator at the far end of the car park. In spite of how utterly _destroyed_ he is; Tweek feels a brief flash of annoyance. Stupid tall people and their long legs! He has to run to try and catch up, and he’s already out of breath from crying.  
Clyde comes back for him anyway, when he realises Tweek’s lagging behind. Throws his arm around Tweek’s shoulder and scoops him close, so suddenly that Tweek stumbles. “Sorry,” he says, as he pulls Tweek along, into the elevator. “I’m not mad. I just wasn’t sure if it was your way of telling me to get used to the idea,” he goes on. “Or if you _had_ no idea.”  
This is a perfect opportunity to ask Clyde what the hell he’s even talking about, but Tweek doesn’t have the strength. He can’t even see Craig’s blue light anymore, but at least he can still _sense_ Craig nearby. So he lets Clyde steer him through corridors and past carefully numbered orange doors and uniformed nurses, past a reception desk where Clyde only needs to nod at the receptionist before they let him through.  
There is a second corridor, where the doors are all blue. Clyde takes Tweek right up outside the one marked 252 and pauses with his hand on the doorjamb. “Anytime it gets too much, we can leave,” he says. “Okay, Tweek?”  
“Okay,” Tweek replies, although he has no idea what’s going on. He can feel a tingling in the air, like a charge building up. Like on a summer afternoon, just before a thunder storm hits. Craig is making an effort, quite literally pulling himself together so he can form a body and stand next to Tweek again.  
_Don’t be scared,_ Craig says, with a smile that makes Tweek’s chest hurt. _I’m still here, remember?_  
Tweek nods. He’s not scared. Confused as hell, yes, but totally not scared. Faintly, through the closed door, he can hear the sound of something that sounds like an 80’s power ballad mixed with an 8-bit video game. Guitar riffs with bleeping and laser-beam sounds added in. When Clyde swallows and _finally_ pushes the door open, lyrics blare out at them from a tinny phone speaker: “It’s strong and it’s sudden, and it’s cruel sometimes. But it might just save your life…”  
Token and Jimmy, sitting on either side of a hospital bed – Jimmy next to the stand with the drip on it, Token next to a machine that beeps every few seconds. They both look up sharply when the door opens. “That’s the power of love,” the chorus blares out from Jimmy’s phone, “That’s the power of love!”  
“Clyde,” Token says, “What the hell, man? I thought we agreed – ”  
“Tweek had no idea,” Clyde says, cutting him off. He’s saying something else now, but all their words have turned into white noise in Tweek’s head. He barely registers that Jimmy’s turned the music off.  
Step by step, Tweek walks towards the bed. Terrified of what he’ll find, but also driven by a compulsion to _see._ The smell hits him suddenly, like a slap – it’s like compost, only a hundred times worse. A sickly sweet, rotting smell. For a second, Tweek actually thinks he might be sick again, but no. Maybe if he tries to breathe through his mouth…?  
_Dude, what’s with this place,_ Craig is saying, as he flickers from Tweek’s right side to his left, and then back. _Something’s up, I don’t feel so good!_  
Tweek can’t answer him. His tongue has turned to stone in his mouth. As if it’s all too much for him to take in at once, he starts seeing things in flickers; snapshots. That patient in the bed, with his hair buzzed so short; you can still see the stitches in his scalp. The bony, skeletal hand Jimmy is holding so carefully, with tubes and cables sticking out of it. The hand that Token is holding, encased in a cast up to the elbow, a cast that nobody’s bothered to write on. The tube mounted right into the neck, taped down with gauze. That’s where the quiet gurgling sound is coming from. And he’s so thin! His cheeks are sunken; his pale blue hospital gown is too loose. But still. Tweek would recognise this boy anywhere.  
_Tweek, please, you’ve got to get a hold of yourself,_ Craig is begging, because of course he doesn’t understand. _This isn’t right! We need to get out of here!_ Pleading and panicking, but Tweek can’t move. His legs give way, folding under him as Tweek sits right down on the floor, sobbing uncontrollably. Mouth open, crying so hard he can barely see. Eventually, even Craig’s voice fades into the white noise around him.


	13. Is that really me?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, to quote Arnold Schwartzenegger in Commando: "I lied." 
> 
> Or, you can think of it this way - are you familiar with the concept of an unreliable narrator? Anybody who's watched Yuri on Ice will know what I'm talking about, of course. It's when your main character gets to deceive the audience because they have no idea of the truth. In Tweek's case, he was in mental hospital, cut off from the outside world for a month. So that's my excuse for lying to you all, and I'm sticking to it. ;)
> 
> In other news, one of you drew me a fanart for this fic?! THANK YOU, I feel so honoured! Here's the link, go check it out!!  
> https://66.media.tumblr.com/25fe5c7fd654b3869dec2d0b0d29d488/tumblr_ppmq1w0TXx1v2ezge_1280.jpg

“This is called a tracheotomy,” Token says, pointing to the tube that sticks out of Craig’s neck. “It’s supposed to make it easier for him to breathe.” Apparently; Token has taken it upon himself to act as a kind of tour-guide of Hell. “The smell’s pretty intense, right? It’s called metastasis.” Here he is, pointing out all the awful things and explaining them to Tweek in a calm and rational manner. “It’s what happens when the body isn’t getting enough nutrition, and starts to devour its own tissue.” Token’s got his arm firmly wrapped around Tweek’s arm, steering him like a ship, telling him what to look at next. “There, you see those stitches in his head? They had to take out part of his cranium when he was first brought in here, because of the swelling in his brain…” Tweek is so numb now, while at the same time, he’s hyper-alert, his thoughts spinning and whirring crazily. “At least the fracture in his arm was a clean break,” Token is saying. “I think the cast’s supposed to come off soon.”  
None of it matters, Tweek tells himself firmly, because Craig is alive, Craig is alive! So what if Craig’s soul may have left his body; both halves of him are still here, still _right here_. It’s a puzzle waiting to be solved, but to do that, he needs Craig to talk to him first. And Craig is being eerily quiet.  
“Tweek, c-come sit,” Jimmy says, hooking his crutch around one of the chair legs and using it to pull the chair closer. It makes a scraping sound against the floor.  
Tweek glances up at Token for permission, and Token gives him a thin, shaky smile before he releases Tweek’s arm. “That’s a good idea,” he says, and he looks a little lost, now that there are no more facts to hide behind. He picks up a plain white takeout cup from the bedside table, and takes a cautious sip. “Remember Charles Leale, Tweek?”  
“The doctor who t-treated Lincoln w-when he got shot,” Jimmy clarifies, when Tweek just looks blankly at Token. “He sat n-next to Lincoln while he w-w-was in a c-coma and held his hand,” Jimmy goes on, nudging Tweek towards the chair with his elbow. “To let him know he had a f-f-friend.”  
Clyde, who is clearly in deep disgrace with Token right now, walks up from the foot-end of the bed, ducking his head so he won’t have to meet Token’s eyes. “The doctor told us all to talk to him,” Clyde says, as his big, square hands land on Tweek’s shoulders and gently push him into the seat. “But I couldn’t. So I’d just hold Craig’s hand instead.” He picks Craig’s left hand up carefully, as if it’s made out of glass, placing it between Tweek’s hands. “I figured, at least then know he wasn’t alone, right?”  
Tweek can’t help a shudder from going through his body as his skin touches Craig’s skin. Because Craig’s hand is so cold and clammy, and it smells – Craig’s whole body smells – of illness and sweetening rot. He tries to draw his breath, then realises his nose is blocked – when did he start crying again? Tweek forces himself to lace his fingers through Craig’s, even though it sends shivers all the way up his arm. “Hey Craig,” he says, his voice breaking a little. “Your hand’s enormous, did you know that?” Then he tucks his face inside his other elbow, even though it’s pointless – of course the others will know that he’s crying.  
“Why you didn’t think to warn him beforehand,” Token mutters, and he’s probably shaking his head at Clyde. And Clyde’s probably staunchly refusing to meet Token’s eyes.  
“W-w-what’s done is done, come on.” Jimmy, who probably always plays the role of peacemaker, puts his hand on the back of Tweek’s neck, rubbing it gently. “Important thing is; Tweek g-gets to see Craig before it’s t-t-too late.”  
Tweek raises his head, quickly scrubs his sleeve across his eyes. “What do you mean,” he says, a little more sharply than he probably should, “Before it’s too late?”  
“The cut-off time is a month,” Token says, before he draws a deep, sniffling breath. “Coma patients usually wake up before a month has passed. After that, the chances… the chances are…”  
Tweek looks up, and sees Token clutching the bedframe so hard, his arms start to tremble all the way up to his shoulders. Baring his teeth like a dog, in an effort not to cry.  
“But t-t-technically, it’s not b-been a whole month yet,” Jimmy, the eternal optimist, points out. “Three w-weeks and six d-days, isn’t that right, Craig?” In spite of how awful everything is, Tweek can’t help but crack a shaky smile.  
“On Monday,” Clyde says, his voice just as flat as Craig’s used to be, “They’re gonna ask his parents if they want to start turning things off. With that tube, he can breathe on his own, but…”  
“But without the drip,” Token fills in, now that he’s more or less back in control of himself, “He’ll slowly starve to death. Craig’s parents are driving out to Denver today,” he goes on, “To get his grandma. I don’t know if, if that means they’ve already made their choice, and, and they’re just getting the whole family together to say goodbye…”  
“He’s not going to die,” Tweek says, and he’s almost startled by how loud his own voice is. “Are you, Craig?! Because that would be a, a stupid, lame-ass thing to do!”  
Craig finally reappears, flickering into existence at Tweek’s right shoulder, staring in bewilderment down at his own unresponsive face. _Is that really me,_ he says, and he sounds so lost, so childlike all of a sudden – a million miles away from the boy who’d always pretend he didn’t care.  
“This is you, Craig,” Tweek says, turning his head to look right at him. Trying to look normal in front of his friends doesn’t even matter anymore. It doesn’t matter, how crazy they think he’s gone. “This is your body, and it’s waiting for you to take it back!”  
“Damn.”  
“This c-can’t be good…”  
“Clyde, maybe you should take him outside for a bit…”  
The other boys are talking about _him_ now – they sound scared, worried, but Tweek tunes their voices out. The only important thing here is that Craig accepts what’s happening. That he has another chance. “Don’t you wanna hold my hand for real, Craig?”  
Slowly, Craig reaches out. His hand is trembling. It hovers over the chest of his real-world body for a second, before he pulls it back. _I don’t know how,_ he says, and Tweek has never seen such a look of fear on Craig’s face before.  
Abruptly, he flickers, from one side of the unconscious body on the bed, to the other – and when he reappears, he looks more angry than afraid. A _lot_ more angry. _I DON’T KNOW HOW,_ Craig screams, and Tweek hears the other boys gasp and yell as things start to float. A plastic cup, spilling water, a pen, the clipboard pinned to the end of Craig’s bed… These things hover in the air, and more and more things join them. Spinning, like that spiral you get when you pull the plug out of the sink. Token’s takeout cup is pulled right out of his fingers; there are bits of stationery, Jimmy’s phone, a packet of tissues. And as more and more things start to float and spin above Craig’s bed, his body suddenly arches its back, convulsing.  
Tweek chokes on fear. Can Craig’s frail, skinny body even handle this pressure?  
An alarm goes off somewhere, and Clyde runs over to the bed, ducking to avoid the clipboard as it sweeps past his head. Trying to press Craig’s buckling torso down against the hospital sheets, using his own bodyweight. It’s such a practiced, familiar response that Tweek can’t help but wonder how many times this has happened. He thought coma patients were supposed to just lie still and, well, _sleep,_ but this is…  
“Tweek, you need to stop this,” Token yells; swatting aside a pen as it shoots right past his face, while Jimmy drops his crutches on the floor with a clang, and throws himself over Craig’s legs.  
Outrage bubbles up in Tweek’s chest, almost pushing the fear aside completely. “Me?! You think I’m the one doing this? It’s Craig, it was always Craig – ”  
“Clyde, get him out of here,” Token snaps, talking over him. “He’ll listen to you!” One of Jimmy’s crutches has joined the spiral of stuff now, and Token has to duck to avoid it as he hurries over to take Clyde’s place. “The nurse’ll be here any second, and I’m not prepared to explain _this!_ ”  
“Hurry,” Jimmy yells, hanging on for dear life while Craig’s legs writhe and jerk under the sheets.  
“Fine,” Clyde says, relinquishing his spot. The next thing Tweek knows, Clyde’s picked him up, thrown him over one wide, solid shoulder like he weighs _nothing._ They’re out of the room in seconds, and Craig is with them – Tweek can tell, from the electrical currents swirling all around him. And from the almighty crash coming from behind door 252, as all the floating objects drop to the floor.  
“Sorry, Tweek,” Clyde says, gently lowering him to his feet. “I know it’s a _lot,_ the first time you see him like this. Come on, there’s a waiting room just a couple doors down.” For once, he’s not grabbing Tweek, tucking him under his arm or pulling him along. It’s an offer, an invitation.  
“Okay.” Tweek nods, hugging himself. He’s freezing, all of a sudden. Even when he zips his parka back up, the shaking doesn’t stop.  
“You want my jacket?” Clyde’s already unbuttoned it, and pulled one sleeve off.  
“Okay,” Tweek says again, and it turns out Clyde’s jacket is big enough to just wear right on top of his own. “I, I look like the Michelin Man,” he mutters, pulling the sleeves down over his fingers.  
“You know,” Clyde says, opening what must be the door to the waiting room, “I’ve been thinking about something you said. That time we fought Cartman and McCormick.” He’s holding the door open patiently, waiting for Tweek to slip inside under his arm.  
“You make them sound like a law firm, or something,” Tweek jokes weakly, stepping into a room much like Craig’s, except of course there’s no bed. There’s a worn out sofa group instead – a three-seater facing a two-seater, with an easy-chair at either end. All upholstered in the world’s ugliest shade of orange. Tweek makes a beeline for the two-seater, sinks down onto the scratchy fabric and shuffles up into the far corner. Then he pulls first one foot, then the other, up to rest on the edge of the seat, before he wraps his arms around his knees. Now that it’s just Clyde and him, he feels a lot calmer. Even his pulse is starting to slow down.  
“Tweek.” Clyde sits down next to him, one knee on the couch, his back pressed against the armrest. “What did you mean when you said, “I can’t take Cartman on when I’m like this”?”  
“I didn’t say that,” Tweek admits. “That was Craig talking.”  
Clyde lets out a deep, deep sigh. “I knew it,” he says, and he sounds equal parts scared and relieved.  
“Wait… you actually believe me?” A wave of relief washes over Tweek; he actually feels dizzy.  
“Makes more sense to me than psychic powers,” Clyde replies, with a cautious smile. “Plus, I _know_ you’re not crazy, Tweek. Like, I know it in my _heart._ ” Clyde suddenly turns bright red in the face, and mutters, “So, uh… can I talk to him?”  
“I don’t think Craig’s doing so great right now.” Tweek bites his lip. “I mean, we both thought he was dead until a few minutes ago…” He can finally sense Craig’s presence again, but it’s faint, fragmented. Definitely still _there,_ just… not focused enough to manifest even his voice, let alone posses Tweek and talk through him. It’s ironic, all this time they were focusing on the toll it would take on Tweek’s body – it never occurred to either of them to test how much energy Craig had to use, for any of the stuff he could do. “There is _one_ thing we could try, though,” Tweek says, when he sees the disappointment on Clyde’s face. “But I need some paper, and a pen.”  
“Wait,” Clyde says, and sticks a hand down the back pocket of his jeans. A second later, he pulls out a rather flat pad of yellow post-its. He also digs a pen out of his coat pocket, and hands both over to Tweek, blushing again. “Here. I used post-it’s to talk to my dad, when I couldn’t… you know.”  
“Thanks,” Tweek says, and quickly swallows the lump that’s forming in his throat. No more crying, Jesus! At least the pad is thin, he tells himself. Even if Clyde was too embarrassed, or too apathetic, to do this at school, he still did his best to talk to his dad. Even if he had to do it by note. And he can talk just fine, now.  
Tweek pulls the pen-cap off, then draws a few scratchy lines on the back of the pad, just to make sure the ink hasn’t dried out. Then he gets up, and sits right down on the floor with his legs tucked under him, butt resting on his heels. He starts unsticking the post-it’s and sticking them onto the floor, figuring it’ll be easier for Craig to write on a flat surface. It must look like he’s doing some sort of insane Tarot spread, where all the cards are blank. When he’s put down a big yellow square of post-it’s, and there’s just a few sheets left on the pad, Tweek shifts and lies down on his stomach. Propped up on his elbows, he puts the pen on top of the sheet in the top left corner. And then, he waits. “Come on, Craig,” he says, trying to keep the impatience out of his voice. “Talk to us. Please,” he adds, hating how his voice cracks on that last word.  
A small jolt of electricity in his left hand. Then, he’s picked up the pen, and his fingers are gradually getting colder. “It’s starting,” he tells Clyde, who shuffles across the couch so he can read over Tweek’s shoulder.  
_Was that really me,_ Craig is writing, and behind Tweek, Clyde makes a sound that’s halfway between a laugh and a sob. _Was that really my body in there?!?!_ His letters are big and shaky; he’s nearly filled up the first post-it already.  
“Your body’s still alive, Craig,” Tweek says, doing his best to keep his voice level. He needs to be the one to calm Craig down, now. “It’s just waiting for you to take it back.”  
_I don’t know HOW,_ Craig writes, that “how” filling up the first post-it completely. The cold isn’t spreading very fast this time; it’s only just past Tweek’s wrist. Well, automatic writing _was_ their very first parlour trick; it makes sense that he’d get good at it.  
“That’s okay, Craig,” Clyde says, from behind Tweek. “We’ll help you figure it out.”  
Clyde believes them. He really believes them! Tweek can’t help but smile, as he says, “Craig, can you write something only you and Clyde would know?”  
His left hand shakes for a second, then writes, _Clyde, when I came out to you, I was so scared, you know that? Because your mom used to put us in the bathtub together when we were little, and we used to sleep top to toe in my bed when you stayed over. I literally can’t count all the times I’ve seen you naked. But all you said was, OK. And when I said, OK?! You gave me a big hug and said: Just because I believe in God, doesn’t mean I can’t believe in my friend._  
“Oh Jesus,” Clyde mutters, and when Tweek looks over his shoulder, Clyde is hiding his face in his hands. “I really said that, didn’t I?”  
Tweek’s hand moves over to the next post-it, completely on its own accord. _You did, you big dork,_ Craig writes. _And then you said: Hey, most of the priesthood are gay, too!_  
“We were walking around Stark’s Pond when he told me,” Clyde says, and Tweek knows better than to look at him, now. “Honestly, Craig,” he goes on, “It made me so happy, that you told me first.”  
Tweek looks down at what he’s just written, and he has to laugh. He holds the next post-it up to Clyde – it reads, _You’re welcome?_  
“You’re such an asshole,” Clyde groans, but he laughs a little bit, too. “It’s good to have you back, man,” he says, closing his eyes and nodding to himself. “You’ve got no idea how much I missed you.”


	14. And then you hugged me, you asshole

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Token is somebody I've always thought of as being kind of wise beyond his years. Maybe some of that was due to being a really clever only child with two super resourceful parents. Maybe some of it's down to being one of just a handful of black kids in that school, and feeling that he sort of _has to_ be a good example? So as he got older, he'd always be kind of worried about how he'd come across, and try to be all proper if he's in a public setting... and maybe the only times he could relax, and truly be himself, would be when he's with his friends. Those are just my two cents' on his character, though. In case anybody's wondering why this boy who used to play ninja got so uptight. 
> 
> Oh, and what Jimmy is saying about building your very own nuclear reactor is entirely possible, by the way - it's just not a very good idea:  
> https://thenewstack.io/memories-life-radioactive-boy-scout/

“Hey,” Token says, sticking his head around the door. “How are things in here?” What he’s really saying, of course, is _Has Tweek chilled the hell out yet._  
“Everything’s fine,” Tweek says, a little defensively, as he looks up from the post-its that Craig is slowly filling up. It’s just as well there’s no table in here, since he’s taking up most of the space between all the furniture, crouched on the floor with his butt in the air.  
“Cool.” Token seems to take the lack of floating objects as a good sign, because he comes all the way inside and holds open the door for Jimmy, too. “That nurse with the tattoos came, and gave him a sedative,” Token goes on. “So he’s calmed down now.”  
“What’s w-with the p-post-its?” Jimmy is staring down at the floor, like he’s worried about stepping on them or dislodging them. His eyes slowly widen. “That’s Craig’s…!”  
“You two had better sit down for this,” Clyde says, and both Jimmy and Token seem a little… unsettled by how happy he sounds. They still sit down though, on the three-seater opposite him, while Tweek stays on the floor.  
“I didn’t realize you were ambidextrous, Tweek,” Token says. He’s trying to make his voice all calm, but it’s shaking like crazy. It’s pretty obvious Token is _wildly_ uncomfortable with all this.  
“He’s not,” Clyde tells him, and it kind of sounds like he’s bragging when he says, “Craig can talk through Tweek.” If Bebe could tie a cherry stem with her tongue; that would be the exact tone Clyde would use to boast about it.  
There is a long, drawn out silence, before Jimmy blinks and says, “What?”  
Token abruptly stands up. “This is even worse than I thought,” he says. “Clyde, use your brain! Just because Tweek believes Craig is talking to him, doesn’t mean it’s actually real!”  
“This writing’s p-p-pretty similar,” Jimmy begins, bending over to pick up one of the post-its. “Re-remember how Craig used to c-curl his D’s?”  
“You see?” Clyde sweeps his arm up in a big gesture, sending some of the post-its fluttering under the other sofa. “Craig’s handwriting proves it!”  
“You, you could try asking him a question,” Tweek suggests timidly, doing his best to dig the lost post-its back out with just one hand. “Like, about something you two haven’t told anyone else?”  
“What,” Token snaps, “To _prove_ that he’s…?”  
“It worked for me,” Clyde says excitedly. “Tweek couldn’t fake Craig’s handwriting. _And_ he wrote it all with his left hand. They’ve been explaining it to me, how Craig’s soul came unstuck from his body, and now, we need to find a way to –”  
“Clyde!” Token’s hands are balled up into fists, trembling at his sides. Like he’d very much like to punch someone, but he doesn’t know who to start with. “Can’t you see the _real_ issue here is Tweak?!”  
Tweek jerks back until his shoulders bump against the sofa Clyde’s sitting on. _Xanax and Anfranil,_ he tells himself, but he’s too hurt and frightened for his little mantra to work anymore. A whimper escapes through his clenched teeth, and he has to _sit_ on his hands, just so he won’t start yanking at his hair.  
“It’s not even Tweek’s fault,” Token is saying, calming down a little now that he’s found a rational explanation to cling to. “He’s _clearly_ not okay, and even though he doesn’t _mean_ to, he’s projecting his delusions onto you, Clyde!”  
Of course Token would think that. Token’s so smart, he’s almost too smart. Tweek reaches out with that part of his mind that can sense it now, if Craig is nearby. But all he can feel is his own rising panic, building up inside him like a damn tsunami, drowning out anything else.  
“Oh hey,” Jimmy suddenly says, all pretend-casual, like he’s just thought up the best joke in the world and is trying his darnedest not to screw up the punch-line. “I’ve g-got a q-question if Token doesn’t w-wanna play.” He turns to Tweek, and his grin, already huge, widens just a fraction. “Craig, w-w-what c-colour was the car?”  
_The car,_ Tweek thinks. Wait, Jimmy doesn’t mean…? Immediately, his hand moves to a fresh post-it, and Craig writes a single word: _Blue._  
For a second, everyone just takes turns staring at each other, then Jimmy points triumphantly at Clyde. “Hah!”  
Clyde’s mouth keeps opening and closing; he’s been rendered mute again by sheer outrage.  
“Jimmy, that isn’t funny!” Token is shaking from head to toe. He’s a million miles away from the awkwardly thoughtful boy who drove out to pick Tweek up this morning. He looks like his brain is about to break from all the stress it’s under.  
“Token,” Jimmy says sharply. “Unlock your ph-phone and g-give it to me.” He puts one crutch on the floor and hauls himself upright, using only his left hand. Holds his right hand out to Token, like there’s no other option for him _but_ to surrender his phone. When he’s standing like this, when he isn’t stooping over to walk, you realise just how tall Jimmy is.  
For a few seconds, Token stands there with his mouth open. Then he gives himself a little shake, and pulls his phone out from his back pocket. Running his finger through the screen lock, Token wordlessly hands it over to Jimmy.  
Now that his breathing has slowed down a little, Tweek risks a quick glance over at Clyde. Clyde mouths the words, _Are you okay,_ and Tweek surprises himself by nodding. But it’s true, he’s not panicking anymore. He can’t afford to, not now.  
“Thanks, Token,” Jimmy says, swiping his thumb across Token’s phone screen. “Now, let’s s-sit down and take another look at these photos I t-took yesterday.”  
All of them gather around Jimmy to get a look; Clyde sinking down next to him, crossing his long legs at the ankles, while Token stands over by the armrest, refusing to sit. Tweek stays on the floor, but scoots over so he’s pressed against Jimmy’s leg and only needs to stretch his neck a little to see. He can feel Craig there too, though he doesn’t say anything – maybe he hasn’t built up enough energy yet.  
Tweek’s mouth drops open, because the pictures are all of him, floating several feet above the floor in the gym, surrounded by basketballs. The picture quality really is something else; you can even make out details like the blood running out of his right nostril. Not to mention the sheer terror on his face.  
“D-does Tweek really look like he’s about to g-g-get even with McCormick and them,” Jimmy asks, zooming in on Tweek’s face. “Doesn’t he j-just look k-k-kind of scared?”  
“Because!” Token starts pacing in a circle around the little cluster of furniture, waving his arms angrily. “Because his psychic powers were going out of control!” Underneath that calm façade of his, hysteria is boiling up. Token being Token, he’s doing his level best to keep it contained. But that would be like holding in the biggest sneeze in the world. You can see it in his quick, jerking movements; hear it in the pleading tone of his voice. “Why wouldn’t he be scared?”  
“Token,” Jimmy says firmly, “How is Craig t-talking to us through Tweek any harder to b-b-believe in than psychic p-powers?”  
“I don’t know! Is that what you wanted to hear?! I just don’t…”  
Tweek looks over at Token, then wishes he hadn’t. Because Token looks so afraid, and so lost, and it’s not like Tweek can say anything to reassure him. Tweek’s the _reason_ Token’s reality is imploding around him right now.  
“I, I need to get some air,” Token says at last. His voice is dangerously thick.  
“Good idea.” Jimmy holds the iPhone out to Token, who takes it and wordlessly slips it into his back pocket. “I’m c-c-coming along,” Jimmy adds, very firmly.  
It looks like Token doesn’t have the strength to argue. He nods once, before he walks over to the door, holding it open to let Jimmy out first. It’s probably just as well, that Token won’t be alone.  
_Token hates for people to see him cry,_ Craig says, like _that_ isn’t already painfully obvious.  
After Jimmy and Token leave, silence settles over them like a blanket. Tweek, finally warm enough, takes Clyde’s football jacket off and hands it back to him. He might even take off the parka next; it seems he’s got over Craig borrowing his energy to levitate every small object in his hospital room.  
“At least Jimmy believes us, eh,” Clyde says, slipping his jacket back on. Tweek feels a happy, warm little jolt go through him at that “us”. And then, more quietly, “I can’t believe that car wasn’t pink.” He squats down on the floor, starts picking up the post-its. “Let’s go back in there,” he says, as he sorts them into two piles – blank ones, and the ones they’ve written on.  
Tweek pulls his parka off, drapes it over his arm – and that’s when he remembers. He shoves his hand inside the lining, making the hole even bigger as he digs around in there. “Craig,” he says breathlessly, as he finally pulls it out, “What if we try putting your hat on? Would that help?”  
Clyde is staring at him in disbelief. “Dude,” he breathes, “You had his hat all this time? You should’ve _heard_ his mom when it went missing, she went _ballistic!_ ”  
Tweek nods, shuddering a little. “I know. She drove all the way to Tweak Bros to yell at me,” he looks up at Clyde, and can’t help but grin. “But I hid it where she couldn’t find it. Craig can do all sorts of things, if we’ve got the hat.”  
As they walk the short distance up the corridor to Craig’s room, Tweek explains how he suddenly got so good at basketball yesterday.  
“And here I thought you were always secretly really good,” Clyde is saying, as he pushes the door open. “And that nobody had, like, given you a chance to prove yourself until then!”  
_It’s not his fault,_ Craig suddenly drawls, right into Tweek’s ear, making him jump and yelp. _We watched a lot of sports anime when we were kids. That stuff’ll leave a mark._ He’s still not visible, not even as a glowing light, but his presence definitely got stronger.  
“Ugh, _Craig,_ ” Tweek whispers, but he’s way more relieved than angry. Could it be the hat, clutched between Tweek’s hands; that’s somehow giving Craig this extra strength? Or has he had enough time to recover from his shock now; that he’s gradually building his strength back up?  
That nurse Token mentioned is still with Craig, and Tweek spots the tattoos straightaway; an intricate sleeve design that runs all the way from her wrist and disappears up her uniform sleeve. He spots a mandala, a blue guy who could be Krishna, some shooting stars and… “Uh, hi,” he says, blushing when he realizes he’s staring. “It’s my first time here,” he adds, by way of an explanation. “I’m Tweek.”  
“Oh, I see!” The nurse seems nice, Tweek thinks, distractedly. Kind of… motherly, the way she carefully arranges Craig’s body. Tucking the duvet under his arms, positioning his head; the way someone might look after a fussy baby. “You move around an awful lot sometimes, don’t you, Craig,” she says, and her voice is warm when she talks to Craig’s body. “I come back from holiday, and what do I see? You scaring your friend here, on his first visit and everything.”  
“I’m not scared,” Tweek says, as he takes a step, and another, towards the bed. Craig’s body is lying very still now. It gives Tweek time to really study the curve of his Roman nose, his high cheekbones, the tightly drawn line of his lips. The smell is still awful, but maybe Tweek’s finally starting to get used to it, because he’s suddenly okay to just breathe normally through his nostrils.  
“That’s nice, sweetie,” the nurse says; she probably didn’t quite catch his name. Many people don’t. “I’ll leave you two alone with him now, all right? Be good, Craig,” she says, adjusting his left hand a little to position the tubes just right. “No more seizures today, okay?”  
As soon as they can hear the nurse’s footsteps going down the hallway, Clyde strides decisively over to the bed. “Come on,” he says, “Let’s try this before Jimmy and Token get back.” The smell doesn’t seem to bother Clyde at all, as he carefully slides one hand under Craig’s head, raising it off the pillow.  
Tweek draws a deep breath, while he opens up the hat, the way you’d open a pillow case if the pillow’s too big to just reverse-flip the thing on. “Here goes,” he says, and slides the blue wool chullo over Craig’s buzz-cut hair. It’s surprisingly soft, Craig’s hair; Tweek thought it would be scratchy when it’s this short.  
Craig, who by now has worked his way up to manifesting a little ball of blue light the size of a rolled up pair of socks, hovers by Tweek’s shoulder. _What do I do?_ His voice is shaky, uncertain.  
“Remember when you possessed me during gym?” Tweek does his best to sound like he knows what he’s talking about, and isn’t just going by his gut instinct _at all._ “That feeling you got, whenever you took control of my body?”  
_Yeah, I guess…_ Craig doesn’t elaborate, but that’s okay. As long as he’s got something to compare it to, this thing he’s about to try. Some kind of… frame of reference.  
“Good,” Tweek says firmly. “Then try to possess your own body, and use the hat to, to anchor you.” Is that even the right word? Who cares, anyway – as long as this works… “And when it feels the way it did, when you could control _my_ body, I want you to try and move it a little,” he goes on. “Okay? Doesn’t need to be a lot. Just open your eyes; wiggle your toes. You can do that – right, Craig?”  
_Right,_ Craig says, and he sounds a little more certain now, a little less afraid. _Here goes…_  
There is a flicker, and suddenly that blue light hovers right above the concave chest of Craig’s body. Tweek blinks, and the blue light is gone, and he can feel his throat closing up with fear. For all that he pretended this was going to work out fine, he was just saying that so _Craig_ wouldn’t be scared. What if it doesn’t work, what if…  
Craig’s eyelids flutter, and then they open. His eyes, brown like bottle-glass when you hold it up to the sun, flicker around the room. His lips; dry and cracked, part, and try to form words, but there is no sound. His eyes widen with panic; and his left arm jerks a couple of times before it does what he wants. Before it moves; and his hand closes around the tube in his throat, pulling.  
“Craig, no!” Suddenly Clyde’s there, holding Craig’s arm back, but that only makes Craig panic even more. His head rises maybe half an inch from the pillow, and he struggles against Clyde’s grip for a few seconds – and then it’s over. Craig’s body sinks back into the mattress, and the formless, warm energy that is Craig’s essence, or _soul,_ or whatever you’re supposed to call it, comes hurtling out of there. Tweek doesn’t see it, but he sure can feel it, when it slams into his chest and lifts him off his feet. Burrowing up against him the way Stripe did, when Tweek picked him up on Halloween, and then suddenly burrowing _inside_ him. Like a frightened, shaking animal.  
Tweek doesn’t even realise he’s been flung backwards until he hits the wall, and it knocks the air out of him. That’s how fast it all happens. Instinctively, he doubles over, pressing his arms against his chest. _Stay,_ he thinks, as a hundred brand-new bruises flare into life all at once across his back.  
And Craig stays, that’s pretty obvious, when he starts yelling at Clyde in Tweek’s voice. “Get that thing out of my throat," he’s shouting, “I can’t breathe, and I can’t talk, and –” Tweek vaguely thinks, _Do I really sound like that?_  
“Tweek,” Clyde asks, but it sounds like he already knows.  
“I’m not Tweek,” Craig says, “You dumbass!” He’s trying to get them into a more upright position, but he’s clearly still scared, and his control over Tweek’s body is starting to slip. “Goddamn it! I can’t get a grip on it,” he complains, while Clyde picks them up and hauls them to their feet. “I got too used to _not having_ a body!”  
“Craig,” Clyde says, before he scoops them both up in a hug. “Tell me. What would help?” He lets go of them, holds their body out at arm’s length, his grip as careful as it always is. “What can we do to make it easier for you?”  
“Get the damn tube out,” Craig says, and Tweek can hear his own voice breaking. “And can’t you take the cast off, if it’s been a month? That thing’s so cold!”  
“It’s a deal,” Clyde says, very seriously, as he looks them in the eyes. “Tweek, are you still in there?”  
He feels it, the very second Craig lets go of his body, ripping his way out because Tweek doesn’t want him to leave. He slumps into Clyde’s arms for a moment, head smacking right into the other boy's sternum. But then, Tweek’s back in control. “Hey,” he says, stumbling for a second before he finds his feet. “Craig’s out now.”  
_I’ve been out for a while,_ Craig drawls, and it may be the world’s shittiest attempt at humour, but still. He just failed to take his own body back, and here he is, trying to make Tweek laugh. Tweek can see him now, standing right behind Clyde, hands jammed down the back pockets of his jeans. Grinning at him like he hasn’t given up hope at all. _For a second there, I almost had it,_ he says, and his smile falters, just a little bit.  
“So, so besides you and Token and Jimmy,” Tweek says, forcibly making his tone lighter, “Who did Craig actually talk to about being gay? Did he tell his parents?”  
Clyde blinks, completely floored by this sudden and, to him, totally random change of subject. “I, I don’t think so,” he says, before he makes Tweek turn his head around and carefully starts prodding his scalp with two fingers. No doubt looking for bumps or blood.  
“Well,” Tweek smirks, “ _I_ told my parents, Craig. I am _way_ more out than you! Oh yeah,” he swats Clyde’s hand away, “That reminds me, I can’t marry your fake sister on account of being _incredibly_ gay, and also I’m in love with Craig. Sorry.”  
Craig reaches _through_ Clyde’s torso to flip Tweek off, but Tweek can tell he’s trying his hardest not to laugh. Good.  
“I kinda figured that out already.” Clyde shrugs, reaching for the red pull-cord that’ll summon a nurse. “Like, I know I’m not the smartest? But come on. I’m not _that_ stupid. And Clydette only wanted you for the coffee shop, anyway,” he adds, winking.  
“You’re not stupid at all,” Tweek says, and he absolutely means it.  
Clyde gives him a quick grin of thanks, before he yanks so hard on the chord that he pulls it right out of the socket. 

The tattooed nurse, whose name-tag reads “Amy”, is visibly shocked when Clyde tells her, “Craig opened his eyes.” She just blinks at him while Clyde explains that they want the tracheotomy removed and the cast taken off, and Tweek gets a sudden hunch that she’s never heard Clyde talk before.  
“So that’s what you sound like,” the nurse says, confirming his suspicions. “I’ll see what I can do,” she goes on, “But we’ll need a doctor to authorize the tracheotomy removal. His cast was due to come off tomorrow anyway, though, so I really don’t see why not. But first thing first, I’ll need to inform Craig’s parents…” While she talks, Nurse Amy keeps looking at Clyde, like she’s wondering what brought this change on. That’s right; Tweek remembers how she mentioned coming back from holiday when she was chatting to Craig. Maybe this is her first day back on the job.  
The idea hits Tweek suddenly, like an actual bolt of lightning. “Stripe,” he says out loud, then grabs Clyde’s sleeve and tugs on it, to make him bend down. “Do you think it would it help if we got Stripe?” He whispers it right into Clyde’s ear, since Nurse Amy there might already know who, and what, Stripe is. Are you even allowed to bring a guinea pig into a hospital? Still, three weeks and six days. They don’t have _time_ to worry about stupid rules.  
Clyde’s eyes go very wide. “Let me call my dad,” he says, and pulls his phone out of his pocket, before he slips outside into the corridor. The nurse leaves a second later, and suddenly, Tweek and Craig are alone in there, with only Craig’s unresponsive body for company.  
_You really think you can sneak Stripe in here,_ Craig is saying, as he appears on Tweek’s right side, arms folded across his chest. Still, he sounds way more hopeful than he probably realizes. Craig must really love that guinea pig.  
“We can try,” Tweek whispers fiercely.  
When Jimmy and Token come back, a few minutes later, Clyde’s still out in the corridor talking to his dad. He catches half a sentence – “…pick you up in the Rabbit if you…” before the door slips closed behind Token, who clears his throat.  
Token’s eyes are red-rimmed and puffy, but he seems to have calmed down now, resigned himself to this being real. “Tweek,” Token says heavily, “I’m sorry. I realise I was basically calling you psychotic when I said… This past month, I came to accept that… that he was gone. I guess I was just scared to hope for too much. I didn’t mean to, to _blame_ you for everything, it’s just…”  
“I know.” Tweek cautiously smiles up at Token. “He, ah… Just now? Craig opened his eyes.”  
“W-what?” For a second, it looks like Jimmy might actually faint. His legs buckle, and Tweek instinctively throws his arms around Jimmy’s waist while Token grabs him by the shoulders.  
_Is he okay,_ Craig asks anxiously, flickering around their little huddle – first with his hands out, like he wants to help steady Jimmy, too. Then with his hands behind his back, like he’s remembered that he can’t.  
Token is already making Jimmy sit down on one of the chairs by the bed. Saying, “Just breathe, okay? Breathe in deep.” Firmly pushing Jimmy’s neck down; until he’s nearly got his head between his knees.  
“Craig almost had it,” Tweek says, crouching on the floor with his hands braced on Jimmy’s kneecaps, to steady them both. Casual touch is such an accepted thing with these guys – Clyde will pick you up without warning, Token will surprise himself by hugging you, Jimmy will muss your hair – and they _must’ve_ worked out that he’s gay by now. That he loves Craig so much, it feels like his heart might burst. But still, neither Token or Jimmy seems to mind Tweek touching them. “I, ah, I thought his hat might work as a kind of anchor for him,” Tweek goes on, “Since he got better at lifting things and, well, possessing me, after I took it from his room.”  
“So it _was_ you.” Token sounds so shocked that Tweek has to laugh. “Dude, this isn’t funny, I was _defending_ you to his mom! Saying “Tweek would never _do_ something like that”!”  
“Sorry,” Tweek says, but it’s hard to apologise convincingly to someone while you’re snickering in his face.  
Jimmy looks down at Tweek through his bushy fringe. “You c-clepto,” he says, with a shaky grin.  
“So, um…” Token looks over at Jimmy, who gives him an encouraging nod, “Tweek, would you… do that writing thing for me?”  
The relief is like a flower, opening inside Tweek’s chest. “One more time, Craig,” he asks, sitting tailor-fashion down on the floor. He pulls Clyde’s pen and the flimsy remains of his post-it pad out of the front pocket of his parka. Puts the pen on the floor, right by his left hand, and leaves the pad balanced on his left knee.  
_Sure,_ Craig says, _Anything to get that pole out from up Token’s ass._  
Tweek decides to ignore that. “Token,” he says instead, “You know what you want to ask him?”  
Token closes his eyes, drawing a deep breath through his nostrils. For a second, he reminds Tweek of a racehorse right before the start pistol goes off. “There was that summer,” he says, eyes still shut. Maybe that helps him imagine he’s talking to Craig? “Right before Jimmy moved here. When Clyde’s family was going to bring me along on their holiday, but your parents couldn’t afford for you to come, too. And you were so damn jealous about it.” Token laughs a little, almost in spite of himself. He finally opens his eyes. “You spent a whole day not talking to me. _Specifically_ me,” he adds, seemingly for Tweek and Jimmy’s benefit. “Clyde was exempt from the cold shoulder treatment, because he was always the secret favourite.”  
It’s just as well Clyde’s not in here right now. He’d probably start protesting that Craig wasn’t like that – but, Token’s story definitely has a ring of truth to it. After all, Token, Jimmy _and_ Tweek all moved here when they were in the second or third grade. While Craig and Clyde have lived in this town since they were babies, always running in and out of each-others house and probably getting confused about who lived where. Like, it makes _sense_ for them to be super close.  
“So that evening,” Token goes on, “I begged your mom to let me in, and I hid under your bed – remember that, Craig?” Token actually laughs a little, and his eyes take on a faraway look. “You looked like you were gonna shit yourself when I came out of there! Remember what I said to you?”  
It’s like Tweek can _feel_ Craig sigh. _You told me to stop being scared that you’d steal Clyde from me,_ his left hand writes, bracing the post-it’s against Tweek’s knee. _You said: It’s impossible to steal a whole person, Craig. And then you hugged me, you asshole._  
When it’s clear that Craig’s not going to say anything else, Tweek rips that one post-it free and quietly hands it to Token. Watches Token read it, then crumple the note in his hand.  
“Okay,” Token says, and his voice is dangerously thick, all of a sudden. “I believe you. Even the handwriting… I believe you.” His balled-up hand starts to shake, and Jimmy reaches out, for once not saying anything, wrapping his hand around Token’s fist. While Token tilts his head up to look at the ceiling lamp, until he’s got his breathing back under control. “It’s not even my fault, you know.” he says at last, “It’s all the science fiction novels I’ve been reading out loud to Craig.”  
“That’s what made you think psychic powers could be real?” As far as olive branches go, it’s a fairly weird one, but for the four of them – the five of them – “normal” went out the window a long time ago.  
“And j-just think,” Jimmy chimes in, as he finally lets go of Token’s hand, “Craig w-w-wasn’t even here to listen to you!”  
“Yeah,” Token folds his arms across his chest, as a smile starts to tug at the side of his mouth. “I could’ve been studying, and learning how to, to…”  
“To b-build your own nuclear reactor,” Jimmy suggests helpfully.  
“Exactly! And then I’d be –”  
“Dying of radiation p-p-poisoning right about now,” Jimmy says. “W-well, come on. You w-would! And your whole h-house w-w-would have a radioactive half-life of f-fifty years!”  
_In that case,_ Craig drawls, _tell Token I saved his life._  
Tweek snorts. “You can tell him yourself, Craig,” he says, out loud and giddy with relief. Because it doesn’t matter anymore, if Jimmy and Token can hear. Because now, the five of them really are in this together.


	15. Come here, Nugget

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, Henrietta drives a hearse. OF COURSE Henrietta drives a hearse. It would pretty much be the sole reason for her to get her drivers' license. It would be really practical too, in terms of all the gear you could stash in the back. Somewhere in the back of my mind, there exists a Ghostbusters X South Park AU where Henrietta and the Goths drive around the hearse looking for ghosts, because what could possibly be more Goth than that? What, proton packs? Pfft, it's not like ghosts are even dangerous in the face of Michael's hair-flicks and sarcasm, right? There is also a separate AU entirely where Henrietta grows her hair out blonde, goes all Mother Earth and embraces Wicca and colourful floaty dresses... Feel free to adopt either or both of these AUs and save me from myself... ;)

When she shows up to remove Craig’s cast, Nurse Amy brings along a yellow wash-tub on a little trolley, filled up with soapy water. She also brings a friend – Nurse Kitty – and what looks like an electric pizza cutter. It’s got a green handle, and it makes a whirring, buzzy sound when she switches it on to demonstrate. “This is a cast-saw,” she explains, and Tweek feels a knot starting to form in his stomach. Sure, the nurses are professionals, and they’ve been looking after Craig’s body for a month, but still. What if they _miss_ with that thing, and nick a vein, or…  
“I’m gonna wait outside,” Tweek says, and it comes out way louder and squeaker than he’d thought it would.  
_Me too,_ Craig says, and he sounds a little relieved. He doesn’t manifest anything until Tweek’s stumbled out into the corridor, but then he shows up with his full, barely-transparent-at-all body. Complete with his feet in their converse, and his hat.  
There’s no one around, so Tweek lets out a deep breath and smiles at him.  
_So,_ Craig says, _If this works…_ He flickers, goes from Tweek’s side to right in front of him, arms crossed. Staring down at the swirly grey pattern on the hospital floor like it’s the ugliest thing he’s ever seen. _If I can take my body back, even though it’s all gross now, will you…_ Craig abruptly wrenches his head up, and he’s all red in the face, blushing like crazy. _Will you be my boyfriend?_  
The biggest grin in the world slowly spreads across Tweek’s face. He can’t say anything out loud, not out here where people can see, but he nods and nods; and he can’t stop grinning. There’s nothing he wants more in the _world._  
_Okay,_ Craig says, and his voice is all wobbly, like he actually thought Tweek might turn him down. _That’s, that’s good._ Is this… Has Craig never asked anyone out before?  
“Oh, Tweek!” That’s Mr Donovan, wearing the trench coat Clyde used for his costume on Halloween. With those big, square glasses he wears, he looks just like a film noir detective – all that’s missing is a fedora, and maybe a dog-end dangling from the corner of his mouth. The only thing that breaks the illusion is the Wallgreen’s bag he’s carrying in one hand. He hasn’t brought Stripe’s cage, or even a pet carrier, but he’s walking in kind of a weirdly careful way, not to mention there’s a little bulge at the front of his coat, partly concealed by what looks like a football scarf. “Henrietta gave me a lift in the hearse,” he says, walking right up to Tweek. “It’s a good thing we all swapped keys years ago,” he adds, “So it only took me five minutes to run into the Tuckers’ house and get you-know-what.” He winks, and Tweek’s grateful there are no nurses around, because Jesus! Mr Donovan might as well have been wearing a T-shirt with “PET SMUGGLING IN PROGRESS” printed on it.  
“Henrietta drives a hearse,” Tweek asks, before Mr Donovan can pull his scarf aside to show him the damn guinea pig out here in the hallway. “An _actual_ hearse?”  
Clyde’s dad nods. “She takes the Goth lifestyle very seriously,” he says, with a fond smile. “But I can’t imagine it’s easy to parallel park that thing.”  
“They’re taking the cast off Craig’s arm in there,” Tweek says, jerking his head at the door. What he doesn’t say is _So don’t go in yet._ Tweek has no idea if the nurses can hear them out here, over their tiny circular saw, but he’s not about to take any chances. Still, Mr Donovan seems to take the hint.  
“Here.” He holds the Wallgreen’s bag out to Tweek. “Clyde left the machine on,” he goes on, as Tweek opens the bag up to find a pair of olive green Converse still with the tags on. “So I’m pretty sure I worked out the right size for you. Plus, of course, the insoles were already done. Is the colour okay? I just thought, since you seem to own a lot of olive green stuff…”  
“They’re perfect,” Tweek says, before he sticks his whole head inside the bag to get a full whiff of that amazing new shoe smell. “And they smell so good!”  
_Tweek, what the hell,_ Craig is saying, laughing at him. _You’re such a spaz!_  
“Oh, new shoe smell is the _best,_ ” Mr Donovan says, before he puts his hand on Tweek’s shoulder and gives it an impatient little shake. “Go on, let’s see if I got your size right!”  
Hopping on one leg, Tweek gets first one trainer off, and then the other. He has to pause to roll up his left pants leg, and is suddenly reminded of his jeans, still in their plastic bag back in the break room of the shoe store, all crusty with mud. Oh well, nothing he can do about that now. And the shoes – they fit him exactly. With the insoles moulded after his feet, they’re instantly comfier than his old trainers; even if they’re still the tiniest bit stiff.  
_Now we can all match,_ Craig says, and suddenly, he’s standing right in front of Tweek, the white tips of his shoes parallel to the white tips of Tweek’s shoes. Like that picture he found in Token’s room. Was that really just a few hours ago?  
“I love them,” Tweek says, looking up at Mr Donovan. “Thank you so much.”  
But Clyde’s dad only shakes his head. “I’m the one who owes _you,_ Tweek,” he says. “A pair of shoes is _nothing._ And I only pay wholesale rates, anyway,” he adds, winking behind his glasses.  
Just then, the door to Craig’s room opens, saving Tweek from replying. It’s that other nurse, the one named Kitty, walking backwards as she drags the trolley out. The water is a murky grey now, and there are _things_ floating in it. “Oh, people don’t realize about the dead skin cells,” Nurse Kitty says, when she sees Tweek’s jaw drop. “When a limb’s encased in a cast for a month, there’s nowhere for them to go, you see? But we gave his arm a good scrub, so don’t worry about it.”  
“Oh. Right.” Dead skin cells? Tweek had no idea. He sees something else on the trolley, too, up on the top shelf, tucked inside a big cardboard tub. It’s just like the ones they used to give him to puke into, back on the open ward. A pile of snipped-up gauze; and the two halves of Craig’s cast. And there, in a second, much smaller tub…  
“The neck tube,” Tweek whispers. “You, you really took it out!”  
“Doctor Gordon authorised it over the phone,” Nurse Amy says, coming out to join them in the hallway. “What with the one-month mark being so close, he was very excited when he heard Craig had opened his eyes. And it’s not like you’re asking us to take the _catheter_ out,” she adds, nodding to herself like that _would_ be a big deal.  
_Catheter?_ Craig sounds utterly horrified. Just as well he didn’t notice _that,_ for his less-than-a-minute” stint back in his body.  
“You go back in there now,” Nurse Amy gives Tweek a look that’s almost stern, “And talk to that boy. If your voice brought him back the first time, there’s always a chance it can happen again.”  
“And if he does wake up,” Nurse Kitty says, “You have to ring for us at once, okay? And please try not to pull the whole chord out this time.”  
“That was Clyde,” Tweek whispers to Mr Donovan, as soon as the nurses have left.  
“Of course it was,” Mr Donovan replies, like this sort of thing happens all the time. “Now, let’s get this thing inside before it pees on me!”

Before Clyde’s dad showed up, and before Token and Jimmy started calling their parents, the four of them made a pact, not to tell anyone else about whole “Craig’s free-range soul” thing. To go with what Clyde has already told his dad; that Craig reacted to Tweek’s voice and briefly woke up. There’s no time for the adults to start calling in a whole team of psychiatrists for them; not to mention that only Token’s parents could afford to.  
“Right,” Token says, bringing his phone down from his ear, “My parents are on their way to pick up Craig’s family, since they’re already in Denver, too. I could hear my mom in the background,” he adds, laughing a little, “On the phone with Craig’s mom. Yelling at her and telling her she’s in no condition to drive.”  
“No doubt Laura’s feeling all kinds of terrible,” Mr Donovan is saying, as he carefully unbuttons his coat, “After the talking-to I heard she gave you on Friday, Tweek!”  
_Hey Tweek?_ Craig hovers at his shoulder, and even though Tweek can only see him out of the corner of one eye, he can tell how agitated Craig is. _Would it be okay with you if I possess you for a second? Just so I can hold Stripe for a bit?_  
“No,” Tweek says firmly. He reaches out to carefully lift Stripe from inside Mr Donovan’s cardigan; and now he can see how Clyde’s dad has taken another scarf and made a little carry-sling for it. Stripe whistles happily, like it can _sense_ that Craig is nearby. So that’s a no. If Craig going to hold his guinea pig, he’s damn well going to use his own body for it from now on. What’s the point of even bringing Stripe in here, if not to give Craig that extra bit of motivation? “I, I mean,” he adds, mostly for Mr Donovan’s benefit, “She was right. I did steal Craig’s hat.” Craig’s body is still wearing it, too. The nurses must’ve decided it was okay to leave it on. And there’s only a thin strip of tape now, where the tracheotomy tube used to be. All of his conditions have been met, and now it’s up to Craig to perform his final trick as a ghost.  
“We’ll tell her I did it,” Clyde is saying, loyal to a fault. “It’s totally fine, I _miss_ getting yelled at by my mom.”  
“No way, man,” Tweek replies, as he puts Stripe down on the sunken stomach of Craig’s body, and slips one of those bony hands over Stripe’s silky fur. Only yesterday, Tweek would have happily taken Clyde up on his offer. But, well – a _lot_ has happened since yesterday. “Come on, Craig,” he says. “You did it before, you can do it again.” Craig’s arm, and his hand, too, have both been scrubbed a bright pink. But without that solid cast on, he somehow looks even frailer than before.  
Tweek looks around the room – at Jimmy, leaning forwards in his seat, hands gripping his own kneecaps hard. At Token, pressing his knuckles against his mouth, pacing up and down the length of the hospital bed. And finally at Clyde, who’s gone over to stand with his dad, like a little kid desperate for reassurance. Mr Donovan’s got his arm around his son’s shoulders; for all that _he’s_ the shorter one by almost a head. Tweek briefly wonders what _he_ must look like, with his brand-new shoes and borrowed sweat pants, and his forever messy hair. Does he look just as scared as they do?  
“Please, Craig,” he whispers, closing his eyes. “Please, please, please…”  
For a few long seconds, it feels as though the whole world is holding its breath. And then, Stripe starts to whistle. Tweek is almost afraid to open his eyes again, but when he does, he sees that the fingers of Craig’s hand have slowly started to move. Stroking, digging into Stripe’s shiny fur. And Craig’s eyes are open, too, moving around the room, resting on each of them in turn. There’s a calm to his gaze now, as he locks eyes with Tweek, and slowly starts to smile.  
“Oh God,” Mr Donovan murmurs, from over by the door. “Oh, thank you.”  
“W-w-welcome back, Craig,” Jimmy says, his voice shaking with emotion even though he’s smiling.  
Tweek wants to run over there, to pull down those railings on the bed, wrap his arms around Craig’s chest and hug him as hard as he can. But he stands rooted to the spot, because Stripe’s in the way, and now Token’s leaning in, briefly resting his head on Craig’s shoulder before he reaches over to grab the hand that isn’t petting Stripe. “Put your finger here,” Token is saying, carefully lifting Craig’s left hand towards his neck. “If you want to talk. They took the tube out, but the hole in your throat still needs to close up.”  
Frowning, Craig clumsily moves his finger around in circles until he’s finally found the hole. Then he opens his mouth, and on the second try, he manages to squeeze out a croaking “Hey.” Then his eyes widen, and he lets go of Stipe to try and push himself up into a sitting position. “Don’t, don’t cry, Nugget,” he croaks, and for a second, Tweek thinks Craig must be talking to him, even though he’s never used that nick-name before. But no, Tweek’s not crying, so who…?  
“Oh, so _now_ you cry,” Token is saying, just as Tweek turns his head and sees that those big, heaving sobs are coming from Clyde.  
“Ah-ah-I’m sorry,” Clyde bawls, snot and tears gushing down his face, while his dad is rubbing his back, trying to calm him down. “I juh-juh-just missed you! I missed you so muh-muh…”  
“Come here, Nugget,” Craig wheezes, and takes his finger off his throat so he can hold his shaking arms out wide. Tweek dives in just in time to pick Stripe up, before Clyde’s run over and buried his face in Craig’s chest, his back heaving with sobs while Craig carefully pets his hair.  
“N-nugget,” Jimmy asks, looking up at Tweek like _he’s_ supposed to know what it means.  
“I have no idea,” Tweek replies, then suddenly remembers his promise to the nurse. Reaching over Craig’s head, he pulls the cord with the hand that _isn’t_ holding the guniea pig. Wait, guinea pig? Oh Jesus, the guinea pig! Tweek quickly shoves Stripe up under his shirt, muttering, “Sorry, sorry, please don’t pee on me!” He hurries over to the far corner of the room, pressing himself against the walls and trying to look invisible. Or, at the very least, like he’s just having a very emotional stomach ache, and isn’t hiding an animal under his clothes _at all._  
“Clyde, come on,” Token’s saying, laughing a little as he tugs on Clyde’s arm. “They’ll need to check him over, you can’t just…” While Token’s trying to coax Clyde off Craig, Mr Donovan is standing at the foot end of the bed, saying, “Craig, it’s so good to have you back, son,” and Jimmy’s getting to his feet, starting to move out of the way. Not a moment too soon, as Nurse Amy comes running in there, her Crocks literally setting off sparks against the linoleum.  
More and more people in white uniforms run in, so Tweek just stays as quiet as he can, while they examine Craig, ask him questions, adjust his bed so he can sit up straight, take his temperature… Stripe’s scrambling for purchase, his little paws scraping against Tweek’s bare skin, so Tweek risks hoisting him up higher. Unbuttons his shirt a little, so Stripe can at least stick his head out the neck hole and get some air. Nobody’s paying attention to Tweek, anyway. It has to be like this, he realises. Craig’s still hurt, for all that he’s awake now, and these people are here to take care of him. The stuff they’re doing is _important._ There’s no reason to feel sore about it, no reason to feel cheated that he didn’t get to hold Craig or even talk to him, but he still does. Craig isn’t just _his_ anymore, now that he’s back in the world, he’s _everybody’s._  
But still. He’s back. Thin as a broom and with a hole in his throat, sure. But he’s also moving and smiling, and somehow even more heartbreakingly good-looking than before. And Tweek gets to be his _boyfriend._  
Suddenly, Stripe bumps the top of his head against Tweek’s chin, whistling very softly. Such a tiny, trusting creature – no wonder Craig loves his guinea pig enough to literally come back from the dead for it. “Thank you,” Tweek whispers, ducking his head so he can rub his nose against the soft, shiny fur. So what if everybody else wants a piece of Craig now. That’s okay. Tweek can wait.


	16. I’ll climb in through the window if I have to

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh hey there, so what happens when I have next to no sleep is that I post the latest chapter of my fic without the actual beginning of the chapter! I'm so sorry! I've edited it in now. I do go back and edit things like grammar, repetitive word use and Token's dialogue, so he won't sound like a Valley Girl - but this is a whole new level for me. YIKES.  
>    
> If you have never watched a Fantastic 4 movie, I envy you. And I apologize in advance for any nightmares. But you should probably know that when Tweek thinks of Mr Fantastic, he's thinking of this: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alternative_versions_of_Mister_Fantastic#/media/File:Ultimate_Mister_Fantastic_(Earth_1610).png  
> Also, Jimmy is referring to the both the H. C. Andersen version AND the Robot Chicken version of the little mermaid, with her weapons' grade thingamabob.

After Clyde has been shoed away, and it seems like every inch of Craig has been examined, the nurses start encouraging him to get out of bed and walk. He hasn’t used his muscles for a whole month, and he needs to start re-training them ASAP. “Let’s just try standing you up first,” one of them says, a plump, red-haired nurse whose name-tag reads Ruth. Craig needs help just sitting up and swinging his legs over the bed, which he seems terribly embarrassed by. The nurses all close around him like a flock of pigeons picking crumbs off the ground, unplugging and re-plugging tubes. Wrapping a thin robe around his shoulders and helping him pull his arms through, careful not to snag it on the IV needle that’s still lodged in his left hand.  
“Would you mind if we… I mean, we’re closer to him in height,” Token is saying, as he offers to help Craig to his feet. Clyde, standing next to him, just nods, before he blows his nose in the big wad of tissue paper he’s yanked out of the dispenser on the wall. It looks like he’s going to need all of it, too, because he’s _still_ crying. Tweek doesn’t know whether he should be amused or worried. He’s watching it all from his corner, surreptitiously stroking the top of Stripe’s head with his fingertip, as Jimmy comes up to him.  
“W-waiting your turn t-too, eh,” Jimmy says, bracing himself on his crutches so he can lean his back against the wall. “That’s a whole m-month’s w-worth of snot and t-tears,” he adds, nodding sagely in Clyde’s direction. “Don’t expect him to run out any t-t-time soon.”  
“Seriously,” Tweek whispers back. Clyde kept all that bottled up since the accident? Damn, now he can’t even feel the smallest bit annoyed that Clyde got the first hug.  
“It w-was the same when his m-m-mom k-killed herself,” Jimmy whispers, and Tweek feels his jaw drop. So _that’s_ how Clyde’s mom died. That’s _awful._ Jimmy shrugs. “S-sometimes, people are just t-too sad to cry, I g-guess?”  
To Tweek, who’s lived his entire life with his emotions bubbling through him and out of him, it’s hard to imagine being too sad to cry. The only thing he can imagine that would even come close to that kind of numbness; would be the lack of feeling induced by some of the pills he spent the past month trying out. Pill after different pill, until the doctors had found a combination that _didn’t_ make him vomit. That had seemed more important to them than any kind of talk-based therapy.  
To their right, Mr Donovan is explaining to a male nurse that no, he isn’t Craig’s father, but that Craig’s parents are on their way. Tweek cautiously angles his body away from them a little, to try and block Stripe from the nurse’s view. Meanwhile, Craig has managed to stand up, though he’s swaying like a tree in a storm, and Token’s got a firm grip on his arm. Propped up between Token and one of the nurses, Craig staggers like an old man as he takes his first, shaky steps across the floor. “I’ve, I’ve stopped now,” Clyde is saying, while he shoves as much of the tissue as he can into one of the pockets on his jacket. He’s trying to persuade the nurse to let him take his place. There’s still a long piece of tissue dangling down his leg, like a tail. “Look! All gone!”  
Tweek can see how Craig looks over at Token, who’s laughing quietly, and sort of shrugs and grins before he bumps his forehead against Token’s for just a second. Craig would probably laugh too, Tweek thinks; if he could. But Tweek isn’t jealous of how close they are, of how Craig and Token don’t even need words because they’ve got years of, of _friendship telepathy_ to fall back on. He’s really not, for all that his heart is beating so fast and every heartbeat seems to say, _Craig, Craig, Craig._  
By now, Clyde’s convinced the nurse that he can be trusted not to dribble snot all over Craig, and has taken up the spot under Craig’s left arm. They’ve got Craig moving again, each bare foot shaking as it finds its purchase on the floor, and sending tremors up his whole leg. But he’s doing it, he’s up and walking, even though Tweek can see beads of sweat starting to form along Craig’s buzz-cut hairline.  
“Tweek,” Jimmy says, nudging him with his elbow, and Tweek suddenly realises that Craig and the other two are walking toward _them._ He takes one step forwards, and Jimmy takes two, and suddenly Craig’s slipped his arms off Clyde and Token’s shoulders so he can wrap them around Tweek and Jimmy instead. Craig still smells _terrible,_ but Tweek doesn’t care, not with Craig running his fingers through his hair. Token’s got an arm around Tweek, too, while he and Clyde are propping Craig up. Clyde’s got a firm grip on the back of Craig’s hospital robe, and he’s hugging Jimmy with his other arm, and of course he’s started crying again. Tweek can feel Stripe scramble out of his shirt, up on his shoulder, before the guinea pig hops up to curl itself around Craig’s neck. Nobody’s saying anything, but they don’t need to; because this is enough. The five of them, together.  


“We’re all going to pretend we didn’t notice _what someone brought in,_ ” Nurse Amy is saying, after the five boys have been detangled from their huddle and Craig’s been allowed to rest on one of the chairs. Tweek’s kneeling next to him, too nervous, now, to even try to touch Craig’s hand. Besides, Tweek reasons, Craig needs one hand to steady Stripe so it doesn’t fall off his shoulder, and one hand to cover the hole in his neck, so he can talk. It’s not like he _could_ hold hands with Tweek, even if he wanted to. And _does_ he want to? Does he even remember everything they’ve been through together?  
Stripe almost bit Clyde when he tried to lift the guinea pig off Craig’s shoulder, and now it sits there, pressed against Craig’s neck like it’s daring anyone else to try. “Just don’t ever bring it back here.” Nurse Amy eyeballs each of the four boys in turn, “Okay?”  
Clyde says, “Okay,” Jimmy says, “Yes Ma’am,” and Token says, “Absolutely not.” Tweek’s too busy staring at Craig to answer. Too busy wondering. It’s not even been an hour since Craig asked him out; but that was _before_ he took his body back. Tweek’s almost afraid to ask. Because what if Craig lost all those memories when he woke up? Or maybe he remembers some things, but he thinks they were all a dream?  
“What,” Craig suddenly says, holding one finger over his throat. Frowning down at Tweek, like he’s actually worried. “What’s wrong?”  
“Do you… remember any of it, Craig?” Tweek bites his lip, drops his gaze to look at Craig’s bare feet. Even his _feet_ are so thin; there’s no spare meat on them _at all._ “I mean… the stuff we did?”  
“I remember playing basketball,” Craig says, leaning a little closer. Ugh, is Tweek an awful person for thinking that his breath is bad? It’s not like it’s Craig’s _fault_. “And dancing,” Craig is saying, grinning a little, “And seeing Stotch’s mom on TV,” he draws a rasping breath, “At the IHOP.” His voice is all dried up, but it’s still his _real_ voice. Tweek can’t help but smile. Craig’s grin suddenly turns wolfish. “And,” he says, “How you’re supposed to marry Nugget’s sister.”  
Tweek sits back on his heels, letting out a happy peal of laughter. “Why do you keep calling him that,” he says, even though the answer doesn’t matter. Because Tweek’s already _got_ the only answer he needs, which is _Everything_. Craig remembers everything.  
“Because it’s his name?” Craig looks half confused, half offended.  
“My name’s Clyde,” Clyde says, frowning as he leans over Craig.  
“That’s what I _said_ ,” Craig snaps, before he angrily lets his hand drop. It’s an obvious signal to drop the topic, but all the nurses in the room, and there are four of them now, have been paying close attention.  
“It’s okay, Craig,” the one male nurse says, squatting down in front of Craig’s seat. He’s a big, handsome blonde guy with an actual man-bun rolled up on his head, and a Karl Marx shovel beard. Not to mention the friendliest smile ever. “You had a pretty severe swelling in your brain, you know? Sometimes, that can lead to… things getting mixed up. Can you tell me what five plus seven is?”  
Craig rolls his eyes at the nurse, whose nametag, Tweek sees, reads Jonathan, but he still puts his finger over the hole. “Twelve,” he says, and takes his finger right off again. Tweek is suddenly reminded of how Craig was flipping Mr Mackey off, that time he and Clyde got called into his office for a “little chat”. This kind of has a similar feel to it, of small-scale insubordination. Maybe Craig just doesn’t have the energy to flip anyone off – yet. Or maybe this is making him more nervous than he wants the rest of them to see?  
“That’s great,” Nurse Jonathan says. He seems like a really nice guy; for all that Craig’s clearly taken an instant dislike to him. “How about seven times six?”  
With a look of utter disgust, Craig touches his neck again and says, “Forty-two. Now can I please have a tractor?”  
Tweek suddenly feels cold all over. What the hell is this? Is there something wrong with Craig’s _brain?!_  
Too late, Tweek realizes his mistake, and tries to pull his features into a reassuring smile. But, Craig must have seen _something_ on his face, because the stare he’s giving Tweek suddenly intensifies, until Tweek can’t even meet his eyes anymore.  
“C-can you explain,” Jimmy says, and his voice is so loud in the sudden silence, “W-what you meant, b-but use a different w-w-word?” He says it in this super casual tone, too, the way you’d ask someone if the bus has already left. It hits Tweek suddenly that Jimmy must have years of speech therapy under his belt. That maybe this is something _he’s_ been told to do, if he gets a word stuck in his throat?  
“I mean,” Craig says, and you’d need to know him really well to see that he’s getting scared now, because Craig is an expert at keeping his face blank, “I want to have a wash? Because I stink and feel gross?”  
“You want a _shower,_ ” Token asks, over-enunciating that last word like a professor of linguistics.  
“That’s what I _said_ ,” Craig replies, and then he looks to Tweek, off all people, for confirmation. “Isn’t it?”  
Tweek doesn’t trust his voice. He knows he’ll start to cry if he opens his mouth now, so he can only shake his head.  
Eyes widening, Craig draws in a sharp breath.  
“This is _nothing_ to worry about,” Nurse Amy suddenly says. “I’ve seen way worse, trust me.” She’s probably telling the truth, Tweek reasons, but still. It’s scary how Craig doesn’t even _realize_ when he’s using the wrong word.  
“And your mental calculus is fantastic,” Nurse Kitty says, patting Craig on the arm. “I’ve seen people struggle with two-plus-two after waking up. It always depends on the person.”  
“It’ll probably normalize after a while,” Nurse Ruth chimes in, and she _sounds_ reassuring, but still… Tweek does notice her very careful choice of words. “A while” could be pretty much anything.  
“Ooooh!” Jimmy’s nodding to himself, like he just figured it all out. “So Craig’s like the little m-m-mermaid now! You know, he d-doesn’t what w-words are, and every step is p-pain?”  
Clyde lets out a big burst of surprised laughter, even though his face is red and puffy from crying, and there are still tears running down his cheeks. Craig, however, looks so deeply affronted that Tweek has to bury his face in Craig’s hospital robe to try and muffle his giggles.  
“What,” Jimmy says, as if he’s only just noticed Craig’s glare. “W-we’ve been looking after your sister a lot this p-past m-m-month. There’s been a _lot_ of Disney m-movies, all right?”  
Token suddenly claps his hands over his own heart and sings the first few bars of “I want to be where the people are,” and doesn’t he just have the loveliest voice. Craig soundlessly flips Token off, before he flips Jimmy off too, and finally Clyde, for good measure. Tweek is left shaking his head in wonder. Because how did Jimmy even do that? How could he turn something so awful and scary into something so funny, so… harmless?  
“How come you’re not flipping Tweek off,” Token is saying, pretending to be all hurt, even though he can’t stop smiling.  
Craig puts his finger on his throat again, and says, “Because Tweek is my boyfriend.” He sounds all tough when he says it, but then he goes and ruins the effect by blushing. It’s so damn cute, though.  
“Yup,” Tweek says, nodding and slipping his hand around Craig’s ankle. Even if they can’t hold hands, he can still hold onto Craig’s foot. It may be bony and clammy, but it’s also solid and _real_. And Tweek has never, _never_ felt this happy in his _life_. He rests his head against Craig’s knee, lets his eyes slip shut for just a second, and allows himself to taste it, to soak in it. _Boyfriend_. 

Craig has to rest a _long_ time before he’s even able to take a shower. Even talking too much seems to wear him out. It’s like the other guys are terrified he’ll fall unconscious again; the more Craig starts to droop from weariness, the more frantic their conversation gets. At least the intervals between Clyde’s crying fits are getting longer. It’s the weirdest thing, he’ll be talking normally to Craig one second, then full-on sobbing the next, the way someone else might start sneezing or coughing. Token and Jimmy keep on good-naturedly giving him shit about it, while Craig will pat his shoulder, or say something like, “Nugget, it’s fine.” Nobody even bothers to correct him anymore.  
Gradually, all the nurses except Nurse Jonathan leave; he’s the one who ends up helping Craig have a shower. Room 252 has a tiny en-suite bathroom with a sink and a shower with a folding seat, so at least Craig doesn’t have that far to walk, propped up between Token and the nurse. After he’s managed to stand up, swaying, with Token’s arm around his rail-thin waist for balance, Craig reaches up to pluck Stripe from his shoulder. Holding him out to Tweek between both hands, while his arms are trembling like crazy – and smiling shyly, like he’d be saying “Please” if he could.  
“Oh! Um, sure,” Tweek says, cupping one hand around the guinea pig’s back legs and butt, and using the other to support the head. Stripe sniffs his fingers, and whistles, and Craig raises his eyebrows in surprise. But, before he has time to say anything, he gets hustled off to the bathroom.  
“Your family’s on their way, you know,” Tweek can hear Token saying, as the door slips closed behind them. “My parents are…”  
“Tweek, here.” Out of nowhere, Jimmy suddenly passes Tweek his own phone, an older model iPhone with a yellow silicone cover. It’s ringing. “T-talk to my m-mom.”  
“What?!” Tweek shifts Stripe over to his left hand, so he can take the phone with his right. Not that he _wants_ to take it. He’s never _met_ Jimmy’s mom, let alone talked to her before, so it’s not exactly easy to remain calm. “Why?!”  
“For c-c-catering reasons,” Jimmy says, smirking. What the hell does that even mean? And Clyde’s no help, he’s too busy blowing his nose again.  
“Hello, Jimmy,” says a warm, feminine voice on the other end, and Tweek has to calm down fast. When was the last time he had a Xanax anyway – at the IHOP? How many _hours_ …?!  
“Hello, um, I’m not Jimmy,” Tweek says, and makes a face. Jesus, can’t he at least talk on the _phone_ like a normal person?! “I’m, ah, Tweek? Hi.”  
“Tweek!” Mrs Valmer sounds absolutely delighted by this. “I’m so glad I finally get to talk to you! Now tell me, do you eat eggs?”  
Tweek blinks. "Eggs? Um, excuse me?”  
“ _Egg_ scuse me,” Mr Donovan drawls, from over by the door, prompting a big laugh and an offered fist-bump from Jimmy.  
“Are you vegan or vegetarian,” Mrs Valmer is saying, while Tweek watches Mr Donovan walk over and reach past him to cautiously tap his fist against Jimmy’s.  
“Just vegetarian,” Tweek replies. He’s frantically trying to catch Jimmy’s eye. What’s even going on here?  
“Ah, that makes my life easier! Now, is there anything you don’t _like?_ ”  
“Uh? Brussel sprouts, I guess? And, uh, pineapples?” Hang on, is this Jimmy’s mom inviting him for _dinner?!_ “But, um, you don’t need to, to feed me or anything, Mrs Valmer…”  
Mrs Valmer laughs. “But you’re the guest of honour,” she says, as if this is the most obvious thing in the world. Tweek almost drops Jimmy’s phone on the floor. “Now put that son of mine on, would you?”  
“Guest of honour,” Tweek asks, as he holds the phone out to Jimmy, who just grins and waggles his eyebrows at him before he tucks the phone under his ear.  
“Don’t be so surprised,” Mr Donovan says, reaching out to put his hand on top of Tweek’s head for just a moment. It’s weirdly calming. “This is all thanks to you.”  
“Craig’s _awake,_ thanks to you,” Clyde says, and scoops Tweek up in a spine-bending hug, guinea pig and all. 

By the time Craig’s family arrives, he’s had a shower and a change of hospital pyjamas – the new set includes a pair of one-size-fits all pants that don’t fit him at all, with a drawstring in the waist and legs that barely hit his calves, much less his ankles. He’s also been put back into bed, so pale with exhaustion that his skin is almost grey. As soon as Nurse Jonathan’s left, Token pulls Craig’s hat out from the back pocket of his jeans, and Clyde helps Craig put it back on.  
“Th-that’s more like it,” Jimmy says, while Tweek puts Stripe, who’s been squirming in his arms, carefully down on Craig’s chest.  
“Thanks,” Craig rasps. His hand shakes, when he covers his throat to talk. His breath smells all minty and fresh now; looks like he also got to brush his teeth. “Thanks for… you know…”  
“Don’t be stupid,” Token says, and pulls the hat down over Craig’s eyes.  
Tweek laughs, but then the door opens, and his laughter dries up in his throat. Instinctively, he slips behind Clyde to try and hide, because there they are. Mrs Tucker, choking down a sob as she runs towards the bed, while Craig is still pushing his hat up and trying to figure out why everyone suddenly went quiet. Behind her is a tiny little old lady, with greying hair still speckled with red, walking upright without a cane and holding Tricia by the hand. Tricia keeps blinking, like she can’t believe what she’s seeing, while behind her, Mr Tucker starts crying too, though he doesn’t even look like he’s noticed.  
Peeking out from behind Clyde’s back, Tweek watches Craig’s parents fall over him, hugging his shoulders, kissing his forehead, asking a million breathless questions while they’re trying to keep their tears in check. Clyde’s hoisting Tricia up on Craig’s bed, and Mr Donovan’s bringing a chair over for Craig’s grandma to sit on. The couple that quietly slip inside after the Tuckers must be Token’s parents, Tweek realizes, for all that he’s never met them either. Token half walks; half runs over to throw his arms around them both.  
“W-we should p-probably go,” Jimmy says reluctantly, and of course he’s right. Even though they’re Craig’s friends, his family has to come first. And it’s way too exhausting for him to have this many people in the room, that’s painfully obvious.  
But still. After being with him literally twenty-four seven for almost a week, just the thought of leaving Craig here and being alone is… not pleasant. Tweek slips his hand down to his waist, where he’s tied his parka, fumbling with the knot. His tube of Xanax is in the front pocket, and if he slips inside that little bathroom; he can fill his hand up with water from the sink and take one right now.  
That’s when Laura Tucker suddenly says, “…and where did your _hat_ even come from?” She doesn’t actually sound angry at all, more like she’s amused by the weird coincidence of the hat turning up here, on Craig’s head. Nonetheless, that question sends an icy spike of fear through Tweek’s heart.  
“It was me,” he blurts out, before he can lose his nerve completely. Everyone in the room turns to look at him, and Tweek can see how Craig is sliding his hand out of his grandma’s grip, so he can cover the hole and talk. “I’m the one who took it from Craig’s room” he goes on, steeling himself.  
“Tweek is my – ” Craig begins, but Tweek’s been keeping an eye on his hand, and yanks it off his throat just in time. Craig looks up at him, eyes wide and uncomprehending as Tweek slowly shakes his head at him. Willing him to understand that now is _not_ the time to tell his parents about them; not after they just got Craig back. And that Tweek needs to face the music on his own, Xanax or no Xanax.  
“Actually,” Clyde says, with a deep, snot-sucking sniffle, “I did it. On Halloween. After we brought Tricia back.”  
Tweek turns to glare at him – he already _told_ Clyde not to take the blame, so what is this?! Doesn’t he think Tweek can handle getting yelled at? Doesn’t he know that now, with Craig back in the land of the living, Tweek can literally handle _anything?_  
“You don’t need to c-cover for me, Clyde,” Jimmy pipes up, “I’m the c-c-culprit, Mrs Tucker! I took it when –”  
“Mrs Tucker,” Token says, spreading his hands. “The reason I told you Tweek couldn’t possibly have done it, was because it was me.”  
Have they _all_ gone insane?! Tweek’s eyes flickers from Token back to Jimmy, then to Clyde. Then finally to Craig, who is doubled over, clutching his stomach and laughing without making a sound.  
“Like I _care_ about the stupid hat anymore,” Mrs Tucker says, before she turns her back on them all to hug Craig again. 

There’s a vending machine over by the reception desk, where Token buys Tweek a small carton of apple juice to take his pill with, as well as a Lion bar to eat first.  
Clyde, who _finally_ seems to have stopped crying for good, musses Tweek’s hair and says, “It’s okay. We can just come back tomorrow.”  
Tweek just nods, and takes a bite out of the candy bar so no one will expect him to reply. It’s not just the separation – did Craig even understand why he did what he did? Or did Tweek hurt his feelings, to the point where Craig won’t want to be with him anymore? It was too good to be true, anyway, that a twitchy little weasel like him should luck out and get someone like _Craig_ to like him for more than five minutes.  
Saying their goodbyes was too fast – no time for a proper hug, no time for much of anything except waving from the door and shouting “See you later!” The part of Tweek that could always sense if Craig was near has been… disconnected, cut off the moment Craig re-entered his body. He feels all hollow now, like a dead tree, and he really needs to chew faster so he can take his Xanax and have it kick in before he arrives at whatever dinner-party it is he’s being dragged to. Maybe he should even risk taking two? Better to be a numb, nodding zombie than to be sobbing convulsively the whole time…  
“Tweek! Tweek!” He shakes his head, turns around to see that it’s Tricia shouting his name, in her piping little grade-schooler voice. “Tweek, Craig wants you to come back inside!”  
“Oh,” Tweek says, absently shoving his candy bar and juice carton into Clyde’s hands. Maybe Craig wants him to take Stripe back – that wouldn’t be so weird. Mr Donovan does have a key to their house, and Stripe doesn’t seem to mind Tweek holding him. “Sure.” Like a sleepwalker, he stumbles back towards room 252. Tricia clearly grows impatient with him, because she runs down the corridor to grab his hand, pulling him along.  
As soon as Tweek’s walked across the threshold, Craig holds out his right hand towards him, the hand that was encased in plaster just a few hours ago.  
Frowning, biting down hard on his lip, Tweek picks up the pace, almost runs towards the bed. Grabs Craig’s hand between both of his, and says, “What is it, Craig?” His voice is all squeaky with worry, and it’s not like Craig does anything to reassure him, like smile, or even squeeze one of Tweek’s hands back. He just draws a deep breath, and puts his left index finger on his neck.  
“I’m gay,” Craig says defiantly, looking first at his mom, and then his dad. “And Tweek is my boyfriend.”  
The silence that follows seems endless. Mrs Tucker’s mouth forms a soundless “O”, while Mr Tucker sits down heavily on one of the chairs. “I see,” he says tonelessly, and it’s impossible to tell if he’s just surprised, or if there’s a deeper disappointment that he’s trying to hide.  
“Cool!” Tweek turns around to see Tricia grinning up at him.  
“Well,” Craig’s grandma says, and her smile is so warm that Tweek gets the feeling she’s known about Craig all along; and just never given a damn. “I’m glad to see you’ve found yourself such a nice young man, then.”  
“Thank you, Ma’am,” Tweek whispers.  
“You’ll come back tomorrow,” Craig says, and Tweek suddenly picks up on the tremor in his voice, “Right?”  
“I’ll climb in through the window if I have to,” Tweek tells him, and before he can second-guess himself, he bends over Craig’s hand, and plants a careful kiss on it. And then, he turns on his heel and runs outside, clutching his burning cheeks. 

As they’re all walking out of the hospital, they naturally hive off into two groups; parents and kids. Everyone’s so excited – Token’s mom’s wound one arm through her husband’s, and one arm through Mr Donovan’s, as they take the long way back to the underground parking garage. Clyde, it turns out, used a shortcut this morning, but you can walk through the park that runs alongside the back wall of the hospital, and get to the parking garage that way. It feels good to be outside, and finally get some fresh air.  
“I’m gonna bake lemon bars,” Clyde is saying, as they walk towards a big lawn ringed by dried-up rose bushes. He seems delighted at having set himself a practical task. “Craig always _liked_ my mom’s lemon bars! Right, Token? I’ll do it after I get home from Jimmy’s…”  
“Are you s-sure they’ll even l-let him eat something like that?” Jimmy sounds like he’s got his doubts. “His stomach p-p-probably can’t handle m-more than like, a b-b-bowl of _soup,_ you know?”  
“Well if he can’t eat that much, I can always freeze them, and just bring him one or two every day…”  
Suddenly Token, who has been walking quietly next to Tweek, lets out a huge, whooping shout. He runs out onto the grass, and does three cartwheels in quick succession, while his phone, wallet and car keys all tumble out of his pockets. Token doesn’t even seem to notice, he just stands there in the middle of the lawn with his arms spread out, laughing up at the bright blue sky. Clyde’s laughing too now, running after him and picking up all the stuff Token dropped, while Jimmy watches them both, grinning and shaking his head. And Tweek is just filled to the brim with this feeling of rightness, of belonging, as he slips his arm around Jimmy’s shoulders and says, “At least Token’s phone is insured.” 

It’s almost six thirty, by the time Tweek stumbles out of the Valmers’ house, more full than he can remember being in his _life._ Jimmy’s mom makes the _best_ food – sweet potato enchiladas, Mexican bean casserole, and tacos stuffed with chopped-up Portobello mushrooms, tofu, cream and salsa, and topped with melted cheese. And she’s never even made those things before – ever! “Oh, I just got the recipes off the internet,” Mrs Valmer had said, reaching over to tuck Tweek’s hair behind his ear. Tweek had just about spat out his _spleen_ in shock.  
“Will you _please_ be friends with my mom,” he’d blurted out, blushing bright red when everyone had laughed. But, it hadn’t been _mean_ laughter, more like… more like an all-inclusive, warm kind of laughter, and after a while, Tweek had even stopped blushing and managed to join in. He’d sat there at the Valmer family’s dining table, which they’d put two of those wide extender planks into, watching everyone and noticing how much the sons looked like their parents. How Token’s dad was like, _Frost Giant_ tall, while his mom wore glasses that she’d push up her nose with her middle finger when they slid down. How Jimmy’s dad, who used to be a fireman but now had a desk job, also had the exact same jawline and head-shape as his son. While the way Jimmy’s mom would let her eyes dart around the table, piling more food on your plate if she thought it looked too empty and pulling you into conversation when you got too quiet, reminded Tweek a lot of how Jimmy had spent the past week drawing _him_ out of his shell. Not to mention Clyde and his dad had the exact same hands – same size, same weird square shape.  
But now he’s out in the cooling November air, trying to burp discreetly and feeling relieved that at least he’s wearing sweatpants, because holy crap, he’s about to explode. Jimmy and his parents are standing on their front step to see everyone off. Token’s parents are getting their Mercedes Benz started, while all Clyde and his dad need to do is saunter out the Valmers’ driveway and walk two doors down to their own house.  
“I’ll just drop Tweek off on the way,” Token is saying, as he unlocks the Prius and climbs inside. “Tweek, you want your house or the coffee shop.”  
“Um,” Tweek says, as he climbs inside on the passenger side, “I kind of didn’t bring my house keys out? I mean, I thought I was going to Denver with my parents, so…”  
“And they’re not back yet?” The engine purrs to life, and Token immediately switches on the heating elements for _both_ their seats, without even bothering to ask. “From Denver, I mean?”  
“They’re going to work the last two hours anyway,” Tweek says, “So the temps can get off at seven.”  
“Okay then,” Token says, his eyes firmly on the rear-view mirror as he watches his parents reverse out of the Valmers’ driveway first. “Coffee shop it is. Unless you want to wait at my place,” he adds, with studied casualness.  
“Thanks,” Tweek says, because he can finally recognise an offer of friendship when he gets one. “Really. But shouldn’t you be calling Nicole, and telling her the good news? Or, like, you could drive to her house and tell her in person,” he adds, warming to his own idea.  
“Oh shit, Nicole,” Token exclaims, hunching his shoulders up and starting to laugh.  
“You _forgot_ you have a girlfriend?”  
“You forgot your keys,” Token argues weakly, as he slips the Prius out on the road and starts to follow the Benz.  
“That’s _totally_ not the same thing!”  
“Pick a radio station,” Token says, like that topic is now done and dusted, _or else._ But still – he’s grinning.  
So Tweek fiddles with the radio knob for a while, until he finds a station playing a sad, meandering jazz melody. It just seems to _go_ with the darkening sky outside, somehow, plus it’s nice not to get distracted by lyrics. Token just grunts approvingly, and for a while, they drive in silence, following the rear lights of the Benz through the all but empty suburban streets.  
“There was this time we got Craig drunk,” Token suddenly says, making Tweek, who’s been looking out the window, jerk his head around in surprise. “Well, _I_ did, I guess. Jimmy’s parents were out of town – this was over a year ago, all right?”  
“Mm,” Tweek says, nodding even though he’s _so_ damn confused. Why is Token telling him this?  
“So the four of us were gonna stay over at his house, to watch a movie or two and basically raid the freezer, because well, you’ve _had_ Mrs Valmer’s food now, right? But then, Jimmy found this bottle of…” Token frowns, like he’s trying to remember the name. “Some kind of schnapps? It had this weird, long, foreign-sounding name. And Clyde mentioned how his cousins back in Holland had taught him to mix any alcohol with fruit juice, but nobody trusted _him_ to do it. So all of a sudden, it was _my_ job. And for some reason, I thought it’d be _fun_ to…” Token makes a face. “I mean,” he says, “I know it sounds like I was being a prize asshole, but Craig’s always been so, so _buttoned up,_ you know? I just wanted to know what he was thinking, underneath that hat.”  
“No, I get that,” Tweek says, remembering all those hours he used to spend not paying attention in class, because he had Craig’s neck to stare at. “Craig's all mysterious. So… what happened?”  
Token snorts. “What happened was, my plan massively backfired. Craig started _crying,_ and going on about how he was in love with _you._ ”  
“What?” Tweek literally can’t picture it, not even in his wildest imagination.  
“Startled the _shit_ out of Jimmy and me, since we’d had no idea he was gay until then. While Clyde was trying to shush him and being all, "Are you sure you wanna talk about this now, Craig?" So then I realized he’d told Clyde already, but not us; and ugh….” Token shakes his head. “It was like; the world’s most retarded jealousy drama. I mean, _I_ was yelling at Craig about them keeping secrets until _Clyde_ got mad, and pissing Clyde off takes _effort_. Not to mention," Token groans, “We literally couldn’t get Craig to stop crying over you. It went on for _hours._ ”  
Tweek blinks. “Seriously?”  
“Oh, you have no idea…” Token shakes his head. The saxophone on the radio is reaching a crescendo, and for a little while, Token doesn’t talk at all – almost like the music is saying what he feels, anyway. “Even Jimmy lost his shit at some point, and yelled at _everybody._ We stayed up until six am talking. The damn _birds_ were singing by the time we’d worked it all out. Sorry,” he adds, glancing over at Tweek. “This is all a bit… much, isn’t it?”  
“No, I…” Tweek licks his lips, looking for the right words, “I’m kind of glad to hear… I mean. I always thought you guys _never_ argued.”  
This makes Token laugh so hard that for a second, Tweek is worried about his driving. “Worse than a bunch of girls,” he chokes out, shaking his head again. “And all because I got jealous over who’s more friends with who. Like that doesn’t all just overlap, anyway.”  
“I think you’re right,” Tweek says, smiling cautiously over at Token. “Just because you’re all friends in different ways, doesn’t mean you’re not all friends.”  
“Trust a Buddhist to phrase it like Confucius,” Token says, and gives Tweek the world’s lightest punch in the arm. 

Tweek is so damn happy when he walks into Tweak Bros that he doesn’t even see them at first. He spots Mom behind the counter, putting on an apron while she’s chatting to Bryan, one of the two temps. Bryan must have close to four hundred piercings by now, or at least some ridiculous number that makes him more holes than skin, but the customers seem to like him. And Ro – five foot two, blue hair, doesn’t do pronouns – makes a seriously amazing cup of coffee. Not to mention they wrote Tweek a card for Mom to give him in the hospital that said _Never, ever give up on yourself or your life._ Those two must’ve pulled a lot of double shifts over the last month, so Mom and Dad could visit him together. Ro’s wiping down the row of empty tables by the window, and raises a hand to wave when Tweek walks inside, and Tweek grins and waves back. Dad is nowhere in sight, so he must be in the back room, Tweek reasons, nursing all his torn muscles.  
“Tweek,” Mom says, spotting him at last, “Try to guess what your present is! I didn’t get you a hat!”  
Tweek laughs, shaking his head – Mom hasn’t even noticed that his jeans have been replaced by grey sweatpants in a size “Mr Fantastic” – and half walks, half runs up to the counter, thinking that for once, _he’s_ gonna be the one to hug _Mom_ out on the shop floor, and never mind who’s here to see it.  
That’s when he spots them, mostly because he can feel their stares on the back of his neck. Sitting at that table right inside the door. His breath hitches in his throat. Why are _those two_ here?  
“You should sit down,” Marsh says, fixing Tweek with those blank, dead eyes of his. He’s slouched across the table, hands wrapped around a Tweak Bros mug, while Broflofski sits opposite him, at the edge of his seat, fiddling with one of their white paper napkins.  
Tweek’s vision is starting to swim. Why didn’t he take Token up on his offer to hang out? Or invite Token back to the shop, for a free coffee? Why does he _always_ screw himself over like this?!  
“Tweek, relax,” Broflofski says, holding up the napkin and waving it back and forth, like a flag. “We come in peace. But dude, we really need to talk.”


	17. Emotions are a pain, anyway

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So just to clarify, when Tweek is talking about the Gautama Buddha, he's talking about the "skinny Buddha", the statue that's supposedly based on the original Gautama Siddhartha himself, who founded the religion. And the "laughing Buddha" is the chubby statue type, the one that probably makes for a more popular souvernir? It's not like you have to choose one weight class of Buddha statue and stick to it, so Tweek's parents have both.

Tweek is looking down at Broflofski, who’s just told him to sit like he’s some kind of dog, and he can feel something faintly dangerous stirring in his chest. “I need to talk to my mom first,” he says, because Kenny McCormick’s friends do _not_ get to tell Tweek Tweak what to do. “You’ll have to give me a minute.”  
He turns his back on them both, without waiting for a response, and pulls out a convincing smile for Mom as he runs up to her. She’s come out from behind the counter now, frowning a little as she says, “Tweek, did something happen?”  
It’s been a long time since he did it, so Tweek takes Mom completely by surprise when he picks her up and swings her in a circle, her skirt and underskirt flapping while Mom yelps and then starts to giggle. They probably weigh about the same, but Tweek knows how to lift from his knees, and he puts her down quickly, too. Those bruises he got from getting thrown into the wall are starting to make themselves felt, so he needs to be careful.  
“Craig woke up,” Tweek tells her, resting his forehead against Mom’s as soon as he hears the heels of her half-boots connect with the floor. “And he likes me, too,” he adds, before he just has to hug Mom tight.  
“But that’s amazing, Tweek,” Mom is saying, hugging him back and giving him a stupidly loud kiss on one cheek. Before tonight, Tweek would have died of embarrassment; that this would happen not only on the shop floor but in front of people from his class, too. But now? It’s the nicest feeling, realizing he doesn’t give a damn anymore.  
Bryan is slapping his back and saying, “Way to go, Tweek!” Even Ro, who doesn’t go for physical contact much, comes over to quickly grip his arm and whisper, “Good for you,” before slipping behind the counter.  
“But Tweek,” Mom whispers in his ear, jerking her head at Marsh and Broflofski’s table, “Those two boys…?”  
“Want me to get rid of ‘em for you,” Bryan offers, like he’s a bouncer and not a barista, with a grim smile that makes all three of his lip piercings stick out from his skin.  
“Oh, they’re not… you know,” Tweek mutters. “They just want to talk.”  
“Well,” Bryan raises his left eyebrow, which only has two piercings in it, close together above the corner of his eye. “I’ll just keep my eye on ‘em anyway.”  
Until that time Mom brought him Ro’s card, which Bryan had also signed and drawn a crude self-portrait in, Tweek had no idea that the temps gave any flavour of damn about him at all. They’ve never had the chance to talk that much, since those two mainly come to fill in for his parents and him. But, it _is_ a big world, and Tweek is beginning to understand that maybe there are way more nice people than shitty people in it.  
“Thanks, man,” he says, and accepts a hearty back-pat from Bryan that almost makes him lose his balance.  
“Tweek, here.” That’s Ro, stretching across the counter with his green tartan mug that they must’ve got from the back room. “It’s a flat white with three shots, since your mug’s so big,” they say, with that shy little smile Tweek’s only seen twice before on Ro’s face.  
“Thank you,” Tweek says, grinning back at them. He makes sure not to accidentally touch Ro’s fingers when he accepts the mug, holding it by the handle _and_ by the bottom so he won’t spill it with his shaky hands. “Your flat whites are even better than Dad’s!”  
“Don’t let him hear you say _that!_ ” Mom gives him one more kiss on the cheek, then Tweek takes his coffee and walks, as slowly as he can make himself walk, back towards Broflofski and Marsh. It’s what Craig would have done, he’s pretty sure of that. Craig would’ve probably flipped them off, too, but well – Tweek’s got his hands full.  
“Well,” Marsh says, in his toneless, inflection-free voice, “I guess we should thank you for taking the time out of your schedule to see us.” He seems almost… exhausted by that long string of sarcasm he just spat out, and takes a fortifying sip from his coffee, which he seems to have barely touched. Is it even still _vaguely_ warm?  
“I’ve been busy waking Craig up from his coma,” Tweek says, and his voice is sharp and loud – even Ro, who’s coming out of the staff room with their satchel over one shoulder now, must have heard him. Lucky the rest of Tweak Bros is empty; seems most people have something better to do on a Saturday night than sit here and drink coffee.  
“We know,” Broflofski says, with a careful little smile. “Word travels fast on Instagram. I’m really happy Craig’s gonna be okay. And I’m sure Stan is, too,” he adds, very deliberately looking over at Marsh, “In his own way.”  
“Mazel tov,” Marsh drawls, raising his mug in an ironic toast.  
Tweek suddenly gets the weirdest feeling, like he’s had a glimpse of the future or something. Because he somehow knows that, if he goes with his first impulse and punches Marsh in the nose, all that’ll happen is that Marsh will lick the blood from his lip. That Tweek will, at most, get a shrug for his trouble. So he pulls up a chair instead, from the closest empty table, and says, “Fine. So talk.”  
Broflofski closes his eyes, and draws a deep breath. “I get that you don’t trust us,” he says, and he actually sounds a little hurt. “But _we’re_ not out to get you, Tweek. We’re here to help.”  
Ro’s opened the door now, and gives Tweek a little wave, which he quickly returns, before they slip outside and make a beeline for the bus stop. A quick look over his shoulder tells him Bryan is still there, leaning over the counter, though he’s put his jacket on. Not leaving before Marsh and Broflofski have left.  
“ _Kyle’s_ here to help,” Marsh points out, stating a fact. “I’m just along for the ride.”  
“What’s _wrong_ with him?” That question bursts out of Tweek’s mouth before he’s even got time to slam the breaks on, and Broflofski flinches. This clearly wasn’t the direction he wanted their little chat to take.  
“Nothing’s wrong,” Marsh says, before Broflofski has time to answer. “I’m just dead inside.” Then he smiles, and maybe it’s meant to be reassuring. But the effect is creepy as hell instead.  
“Stan’s on a _lot_ of meds,” Broflofski snaps, giving Marsh a glare that clearly spells out _Shut up now,_ “So he won’t try to kill himself again. That’s why the, ah…” he glances over at Tweek, and for a second, Broflofski can’t keep the sadness out of his voice, “The total lack of emotions.”  
“Emotions are a pain, anyway,” Marsh shrugs. Like he’s talking about having a hangnail pulled out. “So listen. Eric and Kenny are planning some enormous piece of shit, apparently. To get back at you for God knows what. Kyle thought you should know.”  
There is a sound ringing in Tweek’s ears; the kind of hollow, whooshing sound you’d get from holding a conch shell to your ear. The sound of the ocean. Tweek can feel a tick starting up in his right eye, too. He swallows. “I don’t suppose you’d happen to have any details?”  
“Leo wouldn’t tell us very much.” Broflofski sighs. “He’s too scared of what Eric and Kenny might do to him, if they realize he’s ratting them out.”  
“Your friends,” Tweek says, almost startled at how cold his own voice has gone, “Eric and Kenny.” Using their first names feels weird, _tastes_ wrong.  
“Dude.” Broflofski rubs his hands over his face, fingers fanning outwards. “It’s more… complicated than that, all right?”  
Marsh clears his throat. “What Kyle’s trying to say, is that he thinks the two of us have been stopping Kenny from doing anything _really_ nuts. That if we step in and “betray” him now,” Marsh does that air quotes thing with his fingers, “He’d go off the rails completely.” He shrugs. “I don’t know. And Leo’s too scared of _you_ to just come tell you himself,” Marsh adds, jerking his head at the glass door. “That’s why he’s waiting out front.”  
Tweek can suddenly see him now, that tuft of blonde hair lit up by the streetlamp he’s leaning against. Leo Stotch. Bent over his phone, texting.  
“That’s probably because I threw him out of here,” Tweek says flatly, “On Wednesday.”  
“Just please, tell me one thing.” Broflofski lowers his hands, and when he looks at Tweek, there’s so much despair in his eyes that Tweek has to look away. “I know I have no right to ask, but whatever you say, I swear I’ll accept it. I’ll believe you.”  
Tweek closes his eyes. “You want to know what happened on the roof that day. Is that it?”  
“Yeah,” Broflofski whispers. “If I’m going to make any sort of informed decision, then… Then I need to know.”  
Tweek opens his eyes, and finally takes a sip of the flat white that Ro made him. It’s perfect, but then, he knew it would be. “I only went up there to hide from him,” he says, and assumes they can both guess who he’s talking about. “But either he saw me take those stairs, or he guessed. I was begging him to leave me alone,” he can feel his face twist into something that doesn’t quite qualify as a grin, “And he told me all I needed to do, was step off the roof.”  
“Whoa,” Marsh says. For all that he claims to have no emotions left; he does seem to feel some degree of surprise.  
“Goddamn it,” Broflofski mutters. His voice is thick and shaky. Maybe he’s suspected something like this, all along?  
“I almost did it, too,” Tweek says, and for a second, the knowledge of what he _nearly_ did, what he could _never_ have taken back, makes his throat close up, “Even though I didn’t really want to die.” There. He’s said it out loud now, and he finally knows it’s true. “I just wanted it to be over. But Craig came after me. Craig talked me out of it. And when I ran back from the edge of the roof,” he pauses, “Where McCormick had been waiting for me to jump, all _your friend Kenny_ said was, “What a waste”.”  
“Thank God Craig was there.” Tweek looks sharply over at Broflofski, who’s staring down at the table-top, tugging his shaking hands through his hair. “What?” He looks up, almost angrily, when Tweek just keeps looking at him, “You think I’d _want_ you to die, Tweek?”  
A memory pops up, then, of his one disastrous ride on the school bus earlier this week. Of how Broflofski had tried to strike up a conversation. About Moby Dick, of all things, but still – he’d made an effort. And he’d laughed at Cartman in the cafeteria, when Jimmy cracked that joke about Cartman’s mom. Had that all been… Broflofski picking a side? Trying to _show_ him that he’d picked a side?  
“No,” Tweek tells him, “I never thought you did.” He never thought Broflofski gave a damn, either, but he doesn’t need to say _that._ Not when Broflofksi looks like he might start to cry.  
“Well.” Marsh’s chair scrapes against the floor when he stands up. “I think we’ve got what we came for. Let’s go,” he adds, when Broflofski doesn’t move.  
“Yeah,” Broflofski mutters, standing up more carefully, “I guess so.”  
“Wait!” Tweek hates himself for how squeaky and desperate that comes out, but he _needs_ to know. “What _did_ he tell you? Stotch, I mean,” he adds hurriedly.  
“Huh.” Marsh gets a faraway look on his face, like he’s digging through his memory. “It’s gonna go down on Monday, whatever it is. So I guess you’ve got a day to figure the rest out?”  
“That’s it?!”  
“Sorry, Tweek,” Broflofski says, shoving his hands into his coat pockets. “If we find out anything else, I’ll let you know.”  
Tweek watches the two of them walk out the door, Stotch shoving his phone in his pocket and running up to join them. For want of anything else to do, Tweek gathers up their two mugs in one hand and carries them back towards the counter, reaching over to dump them on the inside. He brings his own mug along, too – he’s drank enough that it’s safe to carry it one-handed.  
“I’ll be off, then,” Bryan says, and grips Tweek’s shoulder for just a second. “Don’t have too much fun, now!” With that, he’s off, hands jammed deep into his pockets as he saunters down past the cinema.  
“What did they want,” Mom asks, as she pours the contents of Marsh’s mug into the grille beneath the espresso machine.  
“They just needed to ask me something,” Tweek says, because lying by omission is still not as bad as actually lying. “About their friend McCormick. Not that I think they’ll be friends with him for much longer,” he adds, before he takes another sip of his flat white.  
“So not everyone is beyond redemption, then,” Mom says, passing Tweek the now-empty mugs. “Here, can you put these in the dishwasher?”  
The industrial dishwasher is in the back room, and Tweek figures this is a good chance to tell Dad about Craig. The back room’s empty, though. “Where’s Dad,” he asks, as he shoves the dishwasher door closed with his hip.  
“Oh, he went home to take a shower,” Mom sounds like she’s doing her best not to laugh, “Since his muscles were starting to stiffen up a bit! But Tweek, you don’t need to stay and keep me company, just because –” Mom’s phone goes off in her apron pocket, with the little “Om mani padme hum” chant she’s set as her ringtone. “Huh,” she mutters, reading the display, “Speak of the devil!”  
“Just tell him to come get us at nine,” Tweek says, squatting to grab himself a clean apron from the shelf. “I’ll stay with you!” Dad has a rule – nobody works in the coffee shop alone after dark – and Mom may think it’s silly, but Tweek is one hundred percent with him on that. Sure, their Saturday night crowd is mostly people waiting for their movie at the Bijou next door to start, but still. You never know when a strung-out junkie with a gun might wander in. Besides, in spite of his ominous talk with Marsh and Broflofski, Tweek is so giddy with happiness because of Craig that he honestly doesn’t mind working on a Saturday night.  
“Richie, what…” Mom is laughing heartily, like she thinks Dad is being silly. “Okay, fine. I’ll sit down.” She plops down gracefully on the floor, her long, mint green skirt pooling around her. “Yes, I’m sitting now!” But gradually, the smile slips off Mom’s face, and Tweek feels as though something slimy and cold has just wrapped itself around his heart and started to squeeze.  
“Oh, okay,” Mom is saying, and her voice is trembling as she obviously fights to keep herself together. “No, he’s here with me now. We’ll get the bus back; you just stay and wait for the police.”  
“Police?!” It’s impossible to keep his voice down. Tweek drops to his knees in front of Mom, just as she ends the call – “Okay, love you too, bye –” and grabs her hands. “What’s going on?!”  
“We’ve had a break-in,” Mom says, and her voice only cracks a little. She’s struggling like crazy to keep it level, Tweek realizes, so _he_ won’t freak out.  
But, who would even…?! Why would anyone…?!  
_No,_ Tweek tells himself firmly. Because there’s no point at all in asking questions, when it’s already happened. What’s done is done. That’s probably what Craig would say, he decides, as he gives his mother a quick, shaky hug. Then, Tweek gets up and runs to the door, flipping the “OPEN” sign to “CLOSED” before anyone else can walk in.  
“I wonder how much crack they can buy, after they sell off our seven-year-old DVD-player,” Tweek jokes weakly. It’s nowhere near Jimmy’s level, but Mom still obliges him by laughing. There’s a hysterical note to her voice, though.  
In spite of his best efforts not to, Tweek can’t help but think about it. What _did_ the burglars take? His laptop’s probably gone, even though it was almost as old as the DVD-player. But, what else could a burglar possibly _want_ from their house? Mom and Dad share a bulky old desktop computer, the TV’s old, too… The newest thing they have is the washing machine with a tumble drier built in; but how would you go about stealing something _that_ big? And it’s not like Dad ever bought Mom an engagement ring; or any expensive jewellery at all.  
As Tweek puts his parka back on, Mom pulls out a hat he doesn’t recognize. It’s a sailor’s cap made from dark denim, with a thick braid that runs along above the wide brim, and it’s pretty much the girliest hat he’s seen in his life. In spite of everything, he can’t stop himself from exclaiming, “ _That’s_ not my present, is it?!”  
Mom’s laugh is a little shrill, but it’s a lot more real than it was, even a few minutes ago. “No,” she says, “I told you it wasn’t a hat, didn’t I? This one’s mine, it’s not like I _stopped_ at buying that dress. That store had _way_ too many nice things. But _this,_ ” Mom takes her coat off the peg, revealing the large paper bag that’s been hanging underneath it from the carry-handles, “This is for you.”  
Tweek opens the bag, and pulls out a square, olive green backpack from that unpronounceable Swedish brand, the one with the curled-up fox logo. What the hell?! Those bags are expensive! “Mom, are you sure? I mean, I love it, but…”  
“I noticed how you’d reinforced the bottom of your school bag with duct tape,” Mom says, sounding more and more like her old self. “So yes, I’m _very_ sure.”  
“Thanks.” Tweek hugs her tight. He’s not carrying anything – his jeans are at Mr Donovan’s shop, and he doesn’t even know, or care, what Mr Donovan did with his old sneakers. Still, he fluffs his new backpack out a little before he slips it on, even though it’s empty. Just to show Mom how much he appreciates it. “Let’s go get the bus, all right?”

It’s the weirdest thing, seeing a police car in your own front yard. Even though he knew the police would be here, by the time he and Mom arrived, it still makes Tweek’s breath catch in his throat. But, there’s also a very familiar-looking Volkswagen Rabbit parked behind Dad’s white Datsun. What’s Mr Donovan doing here? Someone’s left the front door wide open, probably thinking there’s no point in being careful _now,_ and Tweek can hear voices coming from the kitchen.  
“Dad!” He hurries inside, while Mom follows more slowly; no doubt looking around to see what’s missing. The living room looks pretty much the way they left it this morning; the TV _and_ the DVD-player are both still there, though someone’s gone to the trouble of scattering all the DVD’s on the floor; and stepping on a few, too.  
“Don’t touch anything down here yet,” Dad replies, coming out from the kitchen, “There might be fingerprints!”  
Mom runs over to him, throwing herself into his arms and pressing her face into the groove of Dad’s neck. “What if you’d surprised them,” she whispers, and Dad hugs her tight.  
“They were long gone by then,” Dad says, looking over Mom’s shoulder to give Tweek a stiff smile.  
“Of course, you’re all staying with us,” Mr Donovan says, coming out from the kitchen, too. Not wearing his trench coat anymore, though he’s got it folded over one arm. “We’ve got more than enough space. Clyde and Bebe are already making up the beds.” Relief washes through Tweek then, because just the thought of trying to sleep in his own bed after this… no way! “It’ll be _much_ nicer than getting a motel,” Mr Donovan goes on, as if Tweek’s parents will actually need persuading. As if they’re doing _him_ a favour by accepting.  
Their home is a crime scene now. There’s one policeman walking around, taking pictures of all the destruction, while a second one is taking notes on one of those reporters’ pads. Tweek sticks his head around the kitchen door and gasps – it looks like the thieves broke every plate in the house, _and_ the glass pot from the coffee maker they keep in there. Cleaning this up… Jesus, how many _hours_ will that even take?  
“Roger called,” Dad is saying, “Just after I got off the phone with the police. To tell me the good news about the Tuckers’ boy.” Something in his tone makes Tweek realize that they’ve really become friends at some point, his dad and Clyde’s dad. In spite of everything, he has to smile.  
“Who’s Bebe,” Mom asks, disentangling herself from Dad. She sounds as though she’s half asleep.  
“Clyde’s girlfriend,” Tweek tells her, hating how much his voice suddenly shakes. But this quiet, dazed version of Mom is making him uneasy. “Don’t you remember? That’s why he doesn’t want to get married yet,” he adds, reaching out to cautiously prod her arm with his finger. “To my fake sister.”  
“Mm,” Mom replies vaguely, like she’s not really listening anymore. She walks up the stairs, like a sleepwalker in a movie, her boot-heels crunching on the glass from that big framed photo they used to have hanging there. The one of Dad outside Tweak Bros, the day they first opened the shop, grinning and giving a thumbs-up. The frame’s been pulled apart now, and the picture’s been ripped in two; cutting Dad in half right down the middle. Mom doesn’t even seem to notice when she steps on the right half, on her way upstairs.  
“They already finished photographing the first floor,” Dad says, tucking Tweek under his arm for a quick hug. “So go pack an overnight bag, okay? Give this thing its maiden voyage,” he adds, tugging on the handle of the empty bag that Tweek’s still wearing. “Tell your Mom not to bother packing, though, her shopping bags are still in the car.” He actually smiles for a second, shaking his head fondly. “She doesn’t buy herself anything for what, five years? But give her two hours on her own in Denver, and she’s bought half that damn store. Oh, and can you get the toothbrushes from the bathroom?”  
“Sure, Dad,” Tweek says. Thanks to Dad acting so normal, it’s easier for him to pretend, too, that this isn’t so awful at all. To pretend that their home being invaded and literally torn apart isn’t something that needs to ruin their day.  
“I can’t really tell if anything’s missing!” Mom’s voice carries from upstairs, “It’s just such a mess up here!”  
“Mr Tweak,” the policeman with the notepad, a heavy-set fellow with curly brown hair, comes over just as Tweek slips out from under Dad’s arm. “I’d say we’re just about done here. We’ll be in touch in the morning, in case we need you to elaborate on your statement...” 

The first thing you notice when you walk into the bathroom is that someone’s taken the Gautama Buddha statue from the shelf in the living room, stuffed it into the toilet, and peed on it. The stench of urine still lingers; whoever did it must not be drinking enough water, Tweek thinks disjointedly. It doesn’t mix well with the smell of Mom’s perfume – the burglars have smashed her one and only perfume bottle on the bathroom tiles, scattering bits of brown glass everywhere. Mom also owns – owned – three bottles of nail polish. A pale, shimmery pink like the inside of an abalone shell, a mint green one for when she claims to be “feeling crazy”, and a bright red one that she always paints her toenails with. All three of them have been smashed against the floor, leaving three dramatic splashes of colour slowly pooling towards each other in a way that’s almost beautiful. Tweek’s not quite sure _why_ he does it, but he pulls his phone out of his pocket and snaps a picture of those three colours against the patterned floor tiles.  
Now, Tweek can’t help but look down at the poor, pee-splatterd Buddha again. He suddenly remembers something McCormick said, that day on the roof. “I might come piss on your gravestone now and then,” he’d said, “If you Buddha freaks even _get_ gravestones…” And he remembers Marsh pointing out the window at Tweak Bros, at Stotch – supposedly too scared of _him_ to go inside? Hah. Stotch had been _texting._ Had he been warning the other two that the Tweaks were back in town? Oh yes, the pieces are starting to slot into place now, in Tweek’s mind. Three colours blending on the bathroom floor. Silver discs scattered on the carpet, covered in footprints. A hand shoving a whole burger patty in his mouth. This is exactly the sort of spiteful crap Cartman would pull. He and McCormick might as well have signed their names on the wall.  
Ugh, the smell is getting really overpowering now. Tweek quickly grabs their three toothbrushes from the two glasses by the sink – Mom and Dad have shared a glass for as long has he can remember – and pockets the little box of dental floss, before he hurries out of there. The burglars have left the bottle of mouthwash alone – it’s plastic, anyway – but it’s too big to bring. Presumably, the Donovans have mouthwash too, and won’t mind sharing.  
After he’s closed the bathroom door, Tweek follows Mom’s voice into his parents’ bedroom. Sounds like she’s talking to herself, under her breath: “…guess we were due to redecorate anyway, maybe paint everything white this time, and if I just vacuum…” Like she’s trying to convince herself this isn’t so bad. But it looks… even worse than the living room in there. The prayer flags Mom had strung up over the bed have been torn down; some of them have even been set on _fire,_ then quickly put out. As if to show them all, what the burglars think of their religion. The laughing Buddha statue she kept on the dresser has been smashed against the top drawer – you can still see little bits of white porcelain buried in the wood – and the pieces dumped right in the middle of the bed.  
Clothes are strewn across the floor; some of the drawers have been emptied, all of Dad’s socks and underpants scattered amongst Mom’s lacy panties and bras. The photos from each of their bedside tables have had the glass deliberately smashed in their frames, before they were thrown across the room. That one picture of Dad and his two brothers, back when they were all little and just as blonde as Tweek is now, bare-chested and grinning on some long-ago family holiday, has landed right by the door. And his mother is just standing there, in the middle of all this mess, clutching a chunky mint-green cardigan to her chest and muttering, “…tidy everything up, but then if they come back, and mess it all up again…”  
“Mom,” Tweek says, and runs across the room to throw his arms around her. She hugs him like he’s a Tweek-sized teddy bear, like she’s drowning and he’s one of those orange floater buoys with a rope tying him to the shore. She still isn’t shedding a single tear, but she’s trembling so hard that it’s starting to scare him. “Mom, go wait in the car, okay? I’ll get you some tights and stuff. And you can just wear your new dress tomorrow, all right? Dad told me you left the shopping bags in the car.”  
“Okay,” Mom whispers, planting a feather-light kiss on his forehead. “When did you get to be so much tougher than me?”  
“Come on, I’m _not,_ ” Tweek says, as he pulls her back into the hallway, and gently nudges her towards the stairs. “Different things freak us out, that’s all.”  
“Nah,” Mom says, with a quivering smile, before she goes downstairs, that cardigan trailing on the floor behind her, “You’re a little toughie, Tweek.”  
Tweek slips his brand-new backpack off his shoulders. Quickly gathers up underpants, a bra, a pair of black tights, and shoves them all in there. He waits until he hears the front door click shut, before he finally ventures into his own room.  
Oh crap. _Holy_ crap. His room has been _destroyed._ They didn’t just stop at emptying his drawers on the floor and ripping his duvet off the bed, they’ve actually run a _knife_ through his mattress to pull the stuffing and springs out. His pillows have been shredded too, strewing so many feathers everywhere that it looks like it’s snowed inside. Almost as if they were _looking_ for something…  
That’s when Tweek remembers Craig’s goodbye letters. His knees buckle, and he has to steady himself against the doorframe. What could those two _do,_ if they got hold of something like that? No, no, Tweek doesn’t even want to think about it! He just needs to find the letters, he hid them… He hid them in the top drawer of his desk, after Craig had straightened the pages back out and stacked them so neatly. That night the two of them had danced up here. Tweek had put the letters in a blue plastic folder – blue, because they were Craig’s – and lifted up everything else in that drawer, slid them right underneath. Then he’d locked the drawer, with the key that he’s always kept at the bottom of the Tweak Bros mug with the broken handle that he keeps his pens in. Except now, his desk has been tipped on its side, and the key is already in the lock, and the drawer is obviously empty. Was the way everything else in their house has been torn apart just meant to distract from this? From how thoroughly Tweek’s room has been searched?  
Frantically, Tweek starts going through the mess on the floor, sifting through his clothes, some of which have been ripped. Digging through the sediments of lone socks and underpants and broken model aeroplanes that used to hang from the ceiling; which have been mixed up with balled-up pieces of paper. With pages ripped from textbooks, as well as from his notebooks; Tweek can recognise his own handwriting, and even Token’s from those photocopied study notes – but never Craig’s. He keeps searching, though deep down, he already knows. They got what they came here for.  
“Tweek,” Dad suddenly says, sticking his head inside the room.  
Tweek flinches and screams, even though Dad is using the world’s calmest tone of voice.  
“Do you mind grabbing these for me,” Dad goes on, so used to Tweek’s spazzy ways that he doesn’t even react to the scream. He’s holding out a pair of black socks, his grey boxer shorts with the little acorns and squirrels on them, and a plain white T-shirt. “You already took some stuff for your mother, right?”  
“Mm, I did.” Tweek dutifully shoves the things inside his backpack, and stoops so he can start looking for anything that can still be worn.  
“Here’s a shirt,” Dad says, tossing a navy blue shirt across the room to him. Tweek smiles a little as he stuffs it into his backpack, in spite of everything, because the colour reminds him of Craig. “Oh, and look – they left your laptop!”  
Tweek, who’s just found two pairs of undamaged boxers and packed them both, feels the backpack slip out of his fingers. It hits the floor with a soft thud. “Of course they left my laptop,” he says, and his voice sounds hollow. “They didn’t break in here to _take_ stuff; they did it to mess with us. And it’s all because of _me._ ”  
“Tweek,” Dad says, and his tone is suddenly strict, “ _None_ of this is your fault. And if this really is who we both think it is...” he spreads his hands out wide, taking in the broken, ripped-up, shredded remnants of Tweek’s bedroom, “We’re going to find proof, and press charges. All right?”  
Tweek just nods. Easier said than done, proving who did this, for all that it’s obvious to him _and_ to Dad. They were probably careful not to leave fingerprints. And besides – it _is_ his fault. Because if he’d never punched Cartman in the ear or kicked McCormick in the knee, if he’d never answered back or stood up for Clyde when Cartman tried to pick on him, if he’d done any one of a hundred little things differently...  
“Take this,” Dad is saying, and he’s passing Tweek his laptop, with all the stickers still on the lid. “Put it somewhere if you don’t want to bring it, and let’s go.”  


“Tweek,” Mr Donovan says, after Dad has finished locking the front door and slipped, wincing, into the driver’s seat of the Datsun, “Come keep me company, okay?”  
“Um, sure,” Tweek says. It feels surreal, to get back into the passenger seat of the Rabbit; it hasn’t been _that_ many hours since he had a panic attack right here, in this very car. But still. Mr Donovan somehow gives off this sense that everything’s going to be fine.  
“I thought we might want to give your mom some time to, ah, react to what’s happened,” Mr Donovan is saying, as he eases the Rabbit out onto the empty road, and then waits to let Mom and Dad catch up in the Datsun.  
“Yeah,” Tweek says, fumbling with the seatbelt, “She didn’t want to freak me out by crying. Poor Mom,” he adds, looking over his shoulder. Mom looks deathly pale behind the front window of the car, but she still spots him and raises her hand in a little wave.  
“So tell me,” Mr Donovan says, as he revs up the Rabbit, leading the way with the Datsun trailing behind, “How’s Clyde’s driving? Was there ever a point in time where you thought you might get killed?” He’s asking so casually that Tweek can’t help but laugh.  
“No,” he protests, still laughing, “I felt totally safe! Honest! I think he’s a really good driver,” Tweek adds, and Mr Donovan can probably tell that he means it.  
“Is that so? You see, Tweek, I’ve been thinking,” Mr Donovan says, keeping his eyes on the road, “Of buying myself one of those hybrids, and passing this old girl on to Clyde.”  
Tweek’s first impulse is to ask if he can really afford a hybrid, or any new car at all, but luckily he’s at least got _some_ kind of brain-to-mouth filter. Instead, he says, “I think he’d love that.” He can just picture it now, Clyde offering to pick everyone up and drive them all to school in his “new car”. And Token’s _face,_ when he realizes what he’ll be arriving at school in.  
“Well, then,” Mr Donovan says, like Tweek’s just helped him make the decision, and they don’t talk much after that. 

It’s Bebe Stevens, of all people, who opens the front door as soon as Mr Donovan pulls up in the driveway, parking the Rabbit in a hurry so he can run over and open his garage door for Dad. Tweek can hear him yelling, “It’s fine, Richard! Nobody’s ever tried to steal _my_ car,” as he climbs out and slams the car door firmly shut behind him.  
“Tweek!” Bebe runs over to give him a quick hug. “Are you okay? I’m so sorry that happened to you guys!”  
“Uh,” Tweek responds, blinking while he tries to think of anything else to say. “Thank you?”  
Presumably, Bebe has a standing invitation at Clyde’s house, because she acts as though she lives there. Pulling Tweek inside, gesturing and explaining. “Now, we’re putting your parents in Mr Donovan’s room, since the bed is bigger,” Bebe is saying, “And he’s going to take the guest room, since that’s got a single bed. So that leaves it up to you to decide if you want to stay in Clyde’s room with him, or on the sofa down here. Clyde snores,” she adds, “And sometimes, he speaks Dutch in his sleep.” Bebe tilts her head, like she’s thinking this through. “Which is kind of cute, I guess?”  
“Well, _you_ just elbow people in the face while you sleep,” Clyde says, leaning over the banister and waggling his eyebrows at Bebe. “That’s _way_ less anti-social, obviously.”  
Bebe laughs and sticks out her tongue at him, but all Tweek can think of is how these two clearly share a bed on a regular basis. He can feel himself blushing like crazy. All of a sudden, it’s like Clyde and Bebe are the adults, and he’s a little kid, being given a little glimpse of the grown-up world.  
“Anyway,” Clyde is saying, “It’s up to you, Tweek. We’ve already got your duvet and pillow ready, won’t take us a second to get the camp-bed down from the attic if you don’t wanna sleep alone tonight. Bebe’s actually got a home to go to...”  
“Asshole,” Bebe chimes in, but she’s still laughing, “You’re lucky you’re so cute and tall.”  
“...so it’s not like you’d be forcing her out,” Clyde goes on, as he comes and sits down on the bottom stair. Bebe immediately comes over and pretends to throw a punch at his shoulder, but Clyde grabs her wrist with lazy ease. It’s like Tweek is watching them practice dance moves.  
“Um,” he says, rubbing the floor with the white tip of his sneaker. He honestly can’t remember the last time he slept over at a friend’s house. It must’ve been in _kindergarten_ or something. “I really wouldn’t mind about snoring and stuff.”  
“Ok, cool,” Clyde says, jumping back up, just as the front door opens and Mom comes inside, with her makeup all smudged from crying in the car. “Camp bed it is, then!” 

After everyone’s had a chance to shower and brush their teeth, Tweek slips inside the master bedroom, where his parents are settling in for the night. Dad’s already under the covers; propped up with at least two sofa cushions from downstairs for his sore back, reading. Looks like he’s almost finished “How to Grow Your Business”. Mom, meanwhile, is sitting on the edge of the bed, taking her makeup off with the makeup remover Bebe ran home to bring her, because Bebe’s house is literally two doors down from Clyde’s.  
“Hey kiddo,” Mom says, smiling up at Tweek and patting the duvet, inviting him to come sit. “What is it?” She’s wearing that cardigan she brought from home over her nightie. It _is_ a little cold in here.  
“I just...” Tweek sucks on his bottom lip for a second. “I came to... understand something,” he says, clumsily, before he climbs up at the foot end of the bed, tucking his legs under him. “And I wanted to tell you.”  
“Okay,” Dad says, putting his book face-down on the nightstand, wincing as he sits up. “What is is, Tweek?”  
“I never wanted to die.” Those words leave him all in a rush. He’s almost afraid to look at his parents after dropping this bombshell, but when Mom whispers his name, Tweek can’t help but raise his eyes. And her face is so hopeful that he can’t _not_ keep talking. “I only went up on the roof to get away from Cartman and McCormick. I mean,” Tweek shudders at the memory, “They tried to make me eat meat. Cartman shoved it in my mouth, and held me down. I almost couldn’t _breathe,_ but I still wasn’t gonna eat it.”  
Dad swears quietly, and mom shushes him, probably more out of habit than anything else.  
“When, when McCormick found me up there, I was so desperate to get away from him, and _he_ was the one who suggested...” Tweek suddenly chokes, but he keeps going, because he _has_ to. He owes it to his parents to tell them the truth. “He, he took my arm and _led_ me all the way to the, to the edge of the roof, and, and he said...” It’s no use; he’s crying too hard now.  
But Mom is suddenly hugging him tight, rocking him from side to side, and Dad joins them a few moments later, wrapping one arm around each of them and kissing the top of Tweek’s head.  
“It’s okay,” Mom keeps saying, over and over again. “It’s okay, Tweek. It’s okay.”


	18. It’s like living with a swarm of locusts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I remembered the "Sexy robot lady" poster that was in Clyde's bedroom in The Shattered But Whole, it made me think he'd have _loved_ the Heavy Metal movie, in all it's sexist, boob-tastic glory. I headcannon that he inherited the poster from his dad, who had it when _he_ was young, and that they sometimes watch Heavy Metal together and have a good laugh. (I think the funniest segment is the one where two aliens empty a hoover-bag's worth of space cocaine on the floor of the cockpit, and then try to fly their spaceship home after snorting it all... ) Oh, and Beta Ray Bill? He looks exactly like Marvel's Thor, except he's a horse. No, really. Marvel is weird: https://www.cbr.com/russo-brothers-beta-ray-bill-mcu/  
> 

The one thing Tweek forgot to pack; was something to sleep in. So he’s wearing one of Mr Donovan’s threadbare old pyjamas and, in lieu of slippers, an enormous pair of woolly socks that Clyde pressed on him earlier. They’re actually not scratchy at all, and they’re _so_ warm, but Tweek’s had to pull the reinforced heels up above his ankles and rolled up the sock shaft over them, just to keep the socks from sliding off his feet. It’s like Clyde was built on a whole different _scale_ from him.  
Clyde’s room is the next one down from the master bedroom, so when Tweek slinks out of there and pulls the door shut behind him; Clyde probably hears that little click straightaway. He bounds out into the hallway with his phone cupped to his ear, whispering “Tweek! Guess who wants to talk to you?” Only _then_ does he seem to notice how Tweek’s been crying, but even though Clyde suddenly looks worried, Tweek has no time to explain. Not if that’s who he thinks he is, on the other end.  
So Tweek runs that handful of steps across the navy blue carpet as fast as he dares. He’s rolled up the waistband on these pyjama pants as many times as he can without giving himself a wedgie, but he still has to be careful not to step on the hems and trip himself up. He grabs onto Clyde’s wrist and just yanks his whole arm down, shouting into the microphone, “Craig?!”  
“Hey,” Craig rasps at the other end, while Clyde laughs and easily slides his wrist out of Tweek’s grip. “Sorry I couldn’t… remember your number. Nugget’s always… had the same one, so…” Tweek can hear him draw a shallow, rattling breath on the other end. It’s like, that’s the maximum of words Craig can get out in the one go, before he has to rest his throat.  
“Don’t, don’t worry about _that,_ ” Tweek says, and he has to laugh a little. There he goes with that Nugget business again. And did Craig honestly think he’d be _jealous?_ “I never even _gave_ you my number, remember? I’ll just text it to you when we’re done talking.”  
Clyde is holding up something now – something blue? It’s another post-it pad, maybe he’s got those tucked away all around the house? On the top sheet, he’s written, _I didn’t mention the break-in._  
Probably a good idea. Tweek nods, to show Clyde that he gets it. No point in making Craig worry, when there’s nothing he can do about it from his hospital bed.  
“Tweek?” Craig suddenly sounds concerned. “Is something wrong?”  
How can he tell?! And over the phone, too?! Well, they _did_ spend a lot of time together this past week, so… “What, just because I’m spending the night _here,_ ” Tweek counters, and even manages to laugh a little. The last thing he wants to do is lie to Craig, or even speak the tiniest half-truth, so the best Tweek can do is try to distract him. “I haven’t had a friend to sleep over with since kindergarten,” he blurts out, and Clyde turns sharply at that. Gives him an unreadable look. “I mean,” Tweek shrugs, and turns his head to try and hide how he’s suddenly blushing, “He told me about how you all cleaned my desk up. I guess I didn’t… know you guys were already my friends.”  
Clyde’s hand lands on top of Tweek’s head, mussing his hair roughly, while Craig is saying, “You weren’t supposed to… find out about that.” He has to pause mid-sentence to draw a dry, gasping breath. Tweek feels his heart clench with sudden worry.  
“Does it hurt,” he asks, while Clyde puts a hand on Tweek’s shoulder and gently pushes him towards his own bedroom. “Talking, I mean,” he hurriedly clarifies, as he shuffles inside Clyde’s room. Craig’s whole _body_ is probably one big pain right now.  
“It’s not too bad,” Craig replies, which probably translates to _Yes, a lot._  
Tweek realizes that Clyde isn’t following him inside – he sticks his head out the door to see that Clyde’s walking downstairs now, waving his arm like he’s saying _You stay there._ So Tweek shrugs and perches carefully on the edge of the rickety camp bed. “I can’t believe your parents brought you your phone, though,” Tweek says, digging through his mind for anything to say that _doesn’t_ involve the break-in, or Marsh and Broflofski showing up at Tweak Bros. The camp bed feels like it might collapse under him if he coughs _once._ Clyde apologized for not giving Tweek his own bed, since he’s the guest and all, but Tweek gets it – this thing would _never_ hold Clyde’s weight.  
“It’s my grandma’s,” Craig replies, panting a little between words. “She said she doesn’t… use it, anyway. She calls you Sir Lancelot,” he adds, with a rasping laugh.  
“What?!”  
“Because you kissed my hand,” Craig says, and something in his tone tells Tweek that Craig must be blushing just as hard as _he_ is right now.  
“Gah! I’m sorry about that! I didn’t, I wasn’t…!” Tweek stares down at the teal green carpet between his feet. Is it possible to actually die of embarrassment?  
“Don’t be,” Craid says, almost defiantly. “It was _so_ damn hot.”  
“Um,” Tweek chews his lip for a second. It’s not just his cheeks; his whole _face_ is on fire. “Okay,” he whispers at last. “I guess I’m not sorry, then. I… I want to see you,” he adds, all in a rush. “I mean, I know it’s totally selfish, but… I got so used to, to having you _there_ all the time.”  
“Ugh, _tell_ me about it,” Craig groans from the other end. “Everything was… easier, without a body, but now… I need help with _everything,_ now.” He pauses, to draw a rattling breath. “And I had you all to myself,” he adds, a little wistfully. “How…” Craig’s voice just sort of peters out for a second; is he in pain or just exhausted from talking this much? “How soon could you come,” he asks at last, in a hopeful croak. “Tomorrow.”  
In spite of how guilty he’s starting to feel, Tweek can’t help but smile. “As early as you want,” he says. “I know Clyde’s going to church, but there’s got to be a bus. I’ll look it up. I’ll set an alarm on my phone. Okay?”  
“Oh-kay,” Craig says, and it makes Tweek’s chest all tight, how he has to take a little break in the middle of such a short word now. Craig must be really, really tired.  
“Maybe you should try to get some sleep,” Tweek says reluctantly. He doesn’t want this call to end.  
“Maybe… I guess,” Craig whispers, and now Tweek can hear him panting, very softly, as he tries to muster up the energy to keep talking. “Tell Nugget… goodbye for me?”  
“All right.” For just a second, Tweek thinks of Mom, sitting on the floor in the coffee shop, casually telling Dad she loved him over the phone. But no, he can’t. No way! “I’ll see you tomorrow, Craig.”  
“See you… tomorrow,” Craig agrees, so tired now that his words are starting to slur, and “tomorrow” comes out sounding more like “tomowow”. “Sir Lancelot,” he adds, with the scratchiest little laugh, before he hangs up.  
Tweek carefully puts the phone face-down on his chest for just a second, while he catches his breath. For some reason, tears just start flowing out of him, running down his cheeks, pooling in his _ears,_ but he can’t move. Not yet. This is stupid! Why can’t he just be happy? There’s this empty feeling, though, that feels like it’s going to eat him up from the inside. Because having Craig back, but not having him _here,_ it’s like Tweek’s suddenly missing a piece of himself. He forces himself to raise his arms, hold Clyde’s phone up, and search through the contacts until he finds his own number. Jesus, how many numbers does Clyde even _have_ in here? They can’t _all_ be his friends, can they? Finally, towards the bottom, there it is. Tweek highlights and forwards it to the number Craig just called from, figuring that Clyde won’t mind one lousy text message.  
He stays like this for a few minutes, flat on his back, just sniffling and looking around Clyde’s room to distract himself. The walls have been painted a slightly paler shade of teal to match the carpet, and there’s a handful of posters – a soccer one for some foreign team above the bed, one for the Denver Broncos and another for the Denver Nuggets. There’s also one of a female robot – very female, with shiny chrome curves – taped to the door, and another one of a lady in a black bikini riding a pterodactyl with the words “Heavy Metal” picked out above her, whatever that means. And there’s a super old, faded one of a fighter plane above the computer desk where what looks like a Mac sits, next to a pile of textbooks with hockey helmet perched on top. Tweek shakes his head a little as he sits up, crossing his legs at the ankles and dabbing at his eyes with one sleeve of Mr Donovan’s faded blue pyjamas. Does Clyde have a secret ambition to play every sport known to man, or what?  
There’s a creak as Clyde elbows the door open, holding a mug in each hand. Doesn’t smell like coffee at all; but then, it’s probably a bit late for that. “I made hot chocolate,” Clyde says, as he holds out one of the mugs to Tweek. It’s one of those zodiac mugs, bright red, with a cartoon ram on it and the constellation for Aries picked out in dots – or wait, they’re little stars. And the hot chocolate inside it smells amazing.  
“Thanks,” Tweek says, hoping it’s too dark in here with just Clyde’s desk lamp on to see that he’s been crying again. “Craig says goodnight,” he adds, holding the mug as steadily as his shaking hands will allow, because Clyde’s filled this thing up to the brim. “He’s still calling you Nugget, though.”  
“He can call me Beta Ray Bill if he wants,” Clyde shrugs, sitting down on the floor cradling the mug he kept for himself – this one is black, with a single tall building and the words “Anne Frank Huis” picked out in white. “Go on, try it – this is the good stuff!”  
Tweek lifts his mug and blows on it, before he takes a sip. “Wooow,” he breathes, then has another one, “It’s amazing!”  
Clyde grins at the praise. “You know, the kind that’s a bar of chocolate, and you have to melt it and mix it with milk? My grandma sent me this packet, a few weeks ago, with a whole bunch of stuff I used to like when I was little, and some pretty random stuff, too. I mean, she put a Frisbee in there,” he adds, laughing a little. “Like we don’t have Frisbees in America!”  
“What, this came all the way from _Holland?!_ ” Tweek can barely believe it. Clyde actually used up something like that for _him?_  
“Yup,” Clyde grins. “We’ve still got five plates left; I can make some tomorrow too, if you want.” He stretches one long leg out, and carefully kicks the underside of Tweek’s right foot. “So cheer up, okay?”  
“Okay,” Tweek mutters, ducking his head and nodding. Smiling just a little bit, almost in spite of himself. “Thanks,” he adds, and has another sip of Dutch hot chocolate. 

After Clyde’s taken the empty mugs downstairs and they’ve both gargled some mouthwash in the bathroom, it doesn’t take very long before Clyde’s fallen asleep. And he does snore, but it’s really not that bad; a quiet rumble, like a faraway train. _That’s_ not what’s keeping Tweek awake. It’s more like a, a buzzing in his body, nervous energy with nowhere to go. Not to mention that every time he forgets about the bruises and flops over on his back, it hurts enough wake him up even more. Counting sheep doesn’t _work_ when he’s feeling like this; and if he were at home, he’d be going down to the kitchen to fix himself a coffee about now, but…  
For the hundredth time, Tweek slides his phone out from under the pillow and presses the button on the side that lights the screen up. Ugh, it’s almost 1 am. The thing about going to sleep when you know you _have to_ go to sleep is that, well… you can’t.  
Tweek sighs, and is about to stuff the phone back under his head when a message comes in. The number isn’t saved in his phone, and all it says is, _Are you awake?_  
Holding his breath, Tweek slowly sits up, trying to stop the camp bed from creaking. Swings one leg over the edge, then the other. He stands up, phone clenched in one hand, crouching to pick up the woolly socks from the floor with the other. Shuffles across the carpet and pries the door open as silently as humanly possible, and holds his breath while Clyde shifts and mutters something incomprehensible behind him. But still. Tweek doesn’t wake him up. Only when he’s out in the hallway does Tweek dare to even look at the screen again. _Are you awake?_ He quickly pulls the woolly socks on, because the floors downstairs are so damn cold, before he hurries down the staircase. Almost trips over the too-long pyjama bottoms, too, but he catches himself in time. In the end, he goes all the way into the kitchen, to make sure he won’t wake up Mr Donovan in the downstairs guest room, before he calls that number back.  
It picks up on the second ring. “Tweek?” Craig’s voice is barely a whisper.  
“Yeah, it’s me. Can’t sleep either, huh?”  
“I’m kind of… scared to?” Craig’s voice is so hoarse and vulnerable that Tweek has to close his eyes for a second. “What if I… can’t wake up again? If I… lose my grip on it?” Oh, right. _It._ His body.  
Tweek draws a deep breath. “Then we already know how to get you back in there,” he says, with all the fake confidence he can muster. “You’ve done it twice already, remember? And I’ll be there to talk you through it.”  
It feels like the biggest lie in the world, the most fake bullshit anyone’s ever spouted, but somehow it seems to be exactly what Craig needed to hear. He sighs – so quietly that Tweek can barely hear it. “Thank you. Sorry I’m being so…”  
Tweek waits, but that seems to be it. “Spazzy,” he suggests, feeling the corners of his mouth starting to tug upwards.  
“ _You’re_ the spaz,” Caig counters immediately, as close to his old drawl as Tweek’s heard him talk since he woke up. And then he laughs, very softly. “So,” he says, “Want to tell me… why you’re staying there?”  
Oh damn it all. Tweek groans, pulling a hand through his hair. “If I tell you,” he whispers, “You have to _promise_ not to get pissed, okay?”  
“I can… promise to try?”  
“My parents are here too,” Tweek says, because it’s impossible to convince Craig nothing’s wrong. Craig just knows him too well by now. And honestly, it’s just a relief, not to try and hide it anymore. “Our house got broken into. And we’re pretty sure it was McCormick and Cartman.”  
“What?” Tweek imagines Craig sitting bolt upright in bed, eyes wide, cheeks flushing with anger.  
Slowly, Tweek starts to explain, to describe the damage. The Buddha in the toilet, the foot-prints on the back of all those DVD’s. How they’d left the TV there, in favour of ripping that photo of Dad in half. “My mom was the only one who really freaked out over it, though,” he says, “It’s just that… Well, my room was such a mess that I guess it was impossible to tell for sure, but…”  
“But what,” Craig rasps, and he sounds like he’s starting to get really angry now. Angry, or… worried?  
“Your letters,” Tweek says, and suddenly it gets very quiet on the other end. “I mean, I’m not a hundred _percent_ sure they found them,” he can hear himself start to babble, feel himself start to panic, “But they weren’t where I put them, and even if they did? I’ll, I’ll find a way to get them back for you, okay? I promise, I promise…”  
“Goddamn it,” Craig whispers on the other end. “I’m not mad at _you,_ okay? But…” he draws a shaky breath, “They’re gonna… find a way to use them against you. Don’t you see?”  
“I don’t care about that,” Tweek says fiercely, and at that moment, it’s even true. “They can do whatever they want to me, and I won’t even care! But those were _your_ private letters, and they have _no_ right to, to…” his voice trails off. “I’m sorry,” he mutters, “I shouldn’t have told you.”  
“I’m _glad_ you told me,” Craig says firmly. Sure, his voice is a cracked whisper, but it still sounds all tough. “I’m your… boyfriend, aren’t I?”  
“Yeah,” Tweek says, and suddenly, he feels like he can do anything. “You are. We’ll figure something out. We’ll _show_ those assholes.”  
Craig actually laughs, though it doesn’t take long before the laughter changes to coughing. “Nobody knows how tough you are,” he whispers.  


When Tweek wakes up and stretches in bed the next morning, his yawn quickly turns into a howl of pain. Holy crap, his _back!_ Last night, he’d forgotten all about how Craig accidentally threw him into a wall at the hospital. But that, coupled with about half a night’s uneven shut-eye on a rickety, unfamiliar camp bed, once he’d _finally_ convinced Craig to go to sleep… Yeah. Why is he even surprised that it hurts this much? And it seems like he’s slept right through his phone alarm. Ugh. That’ll teach him to just set it to vibrate. Tweek groans out loud when he pulls his phone out from under the pillow, because it reads 07:58. So much for being at the hospital before Craig’s woken up.  
“How’s your back,” Clyde drawls, shuffling back inside his room wearing just his pyjama bottoms. His hair’s wet, too – he must’ve come from the shower.  
Tweek picks up his pillow and considers throwing it at Clyde, but then decides it would probably hurt too much. “Not great,” he replies through gritted teeth.  
“Okay, so I’ve got this arnica spray,” Clyde says, pulling his hands through his wet hair, “Also from my Dutch grandma. It’s what I douse Jimmy in, when he’s done something stupid to himself.” He comes all the way over to Tweek’s bed, leaning over him with the most sympathetic look on his face. “Does it hurt too much to even move?”  
“Kind of,” Tweek mutters, rolling his shoulder to test just how bad it is.  
“Cool,” Clyde says, then proceeds to shake his wet hair _right over_ Tweek’s head, like a damn dog shaking off raindrops.  
“Asshole,” Tweek snaps, so pissed he just jumps to his feet without thinking about it – sending a bolt of white-hot pain all the way from his tailbone to his neck. “Owww!”  
“Well, you’re up now,” Clyde says, stepping nimbly out of Tweek’s way before he can, oh, get himself strangled, for instance. “Go have a shower; I left out a towel for you. And then I’ll spray you afterwards, and you’ll feel better.”  
Completely lost for words, Tweek just growls at him in response, before he stalks out to the bathroom. It’s done up in shades of cream and pale blue, and there’s a picture of dolphins leaping a wave on the wall, hanging all crooked. Tweek reaches out and straightens it – he might as well – before he climbs into the bathtub and pulls the mint green shower curtain all the way around. He remembers how to work this thing from his shower last night; the dial’s a little fiddly but Tweek’s soon got a nice hot beam of water shooting right into the back of his neck. He showers as fast as he can, since he didn’t lock the door – just in case somebody needs the bathroom. There’s a toilet downstairs, too, but with this many people in the house, it’s best not to be selfish.  
The towel Clyde left out for him is bright red, and almost… crunchy, it’s so old. Stiff and scratchy. Tweek doesn’t think Clyde is punking him, though, since the towel by the sink is just as cardboard-like and nasty. Two guys living on their own like this… it was probably Clyde’s mom who did stuff like buy fabric softener and tumble-dry the towels. Maybe Clyde’s dad hasn’t even _bought_ new towels since she died? Does Clyde even talk about his mom? Tweek’s still too woozy from sleep to even remember if he’s mentioned her or not. Maybe it’s too awful to talk about – Jimmy _did_ say she killed herself. 

Downstairs in the kitchen, Mom is making pancakes for everyone. She’s standing by the stove, wearing Dad’s sweater over her nightie, and a pair of too-big, bright yellow crocks on her feet that she must’ve borrowed from _somewhere_ in the house. Sipping what smells like _proper_ coffee, from a nice big mug with a houseboat printed on it. “Morning, kiddo,” she says, holding out her arm for a cuddle, and Tweek carefully hugs her. It’s just the two of them in here, after all.  
Mom seems a lot more… herself now, and that’s a relief. She’s even made a pot of coffee, though she’s had to use a teapot to brew it in. “I brought a bag of beans from the kitchen last night,” she says, while Tweek slips out from under her arm and starts rinsing out that star sign mug he drank from last night in the sink. “And the little hand-grinder. Since I had my doubts about what I’d find here.” She wrinkles her nose, “But Tweek, what’s that smell?”  
“Dutch medical spray,” Tweek mutters, making a face, while he’s reaching past Mom to grab one of the threadbare kitchen towels hanging from the handle on the oven door. The spray doesn’t exactly _stink,_ but it’s not a subtle odour, either. _And_ it’s making the tent-like Denver Broncos T-shirt Clyde pressed on him stick to his back. But still – the bruises seem to hurt a _little_ bit less. Could be a placebo effect, could be the spray working. “Where’s Dad?”  
“Still asleep. So what’d you think of the towels,” Mom asks, and laughs when Tweek can only shudder in response. “After we’ve fixed the house back up,” she says, sliding a pancake off the frying pan and onto the plate where a stack of finished ones are cooling, “And I know how much we can afford to spend, I’m going to swap out _all_ the towels in this place with brand new ones. And _then,_ ” she smiles impishly, while she ladles more batter into the frying pan, “I’m going to make a big pyre out of all the horrible _old_ towels, and dance around it.”  
Tweek snickers into her shoulder. “I’ll bring the matches and kerosene,” he whispers. Mom turns her head to look at him, and they’re standing so close that they end up bumping noses like eskimos while they laugh.  
“Are you… making pancakes?” Tweek turns to see Clyde in the doorway, wearing black suit pants and a half-buttoned white shirt, a sky-blue tie hanging loosely around his neck. He’s even combed his hair back. From that look on his face, you’d think a _meteorite_ just crashed into their kitchen.  
“Yes,” Mom says, smiling up at Clyde. What else _can_ she say? “I hope you like pancakes?”  
“Dad!” Clyde turns around, shouting at the top of his lungs, “Mrs Tweak is making _pancakes!_ ”  
There is a crash, and then Mr Donovan comes running into the kitchen, with his glasses askew and his tie in his hand. “Pancakes? Really?”  
“They’re not that hard to make,” Mom says, smiling and shaking her head. “You two still have time to eat before you need to leave, right?”  
“Uh-huh,” Clyde says, already pulling four plates out from the stack in one of the cupboards, then grabbing a fifth one, before he runs over and starts to set the tiny kitchen table. There are only two wooden chairs in here, but Tweek remembers there’s a third chair just by the front door, presumably to sit on while you put your shoes on, so he hurries out to get it.  
“Mass starts at nine,” Mr Donovan is saying as Tweek goes past him, reaching into one of the drawers to grab a big handful of random cutlery. “Clyde, take your tie off!”  
“You three sit down and eat,” Mom says, as Tweek returns with the third chair. “I’ll just fry up the rest of this batter.” With a table this small, it makes sense to eat in shifts.  
There’s no maple syrup, but there _are_ two glasses of jam; strawberry and orange marmalade, and those are almost full. Tweek’s never had marmalade on pancakes before, so he goes with that, as soon as he’s found a clean mug for Mr Donovan and poured him a cup of Mom’s coffee. It’s kind of sweet, he decides, how little it takes to make those two happy.  
“This is incredible,” Mr Donovan says, in between mouthfuls. “Helen, really – thank you so much!”  
Clyde is too busy eating to talk, but he grunts and nods frantically.  
Just as Mr Donovan is asking Mom if she needs a lift to the coffee shop, or if they open later on Sundays, Dad finally comes downstairs. He’s still wearing his pyjamas, staggering and wincing like an old man. “Oh, we don’t open at all on Sundays,” Dad says, leaning heavily against the kitchen counter. “We barely get any customers; everyone’s too Catholic around here. No offense,” he adds hurriedly, as if he just remembers whose bed he’s been sleeping in.  
“Mr Tweak, you can sit here,” Clyde says, “I’m done!” Tweek blinks – somehow, Clyde’s already polished off his stack of pancakes. Now he’s running over to the sink to rinse his plate off, and Tweek’s not even halfway through his own portion.  
“It’s like living with a swarm of locusts,” Mr Donovan says, following Tweek's gaze, as Clyde tells Mom how amazing the pancakes were and gives her the most careful hug he can manage. Then he bounds upstairs, presumably to brush his teeth.  
Dad groans quietly, as he sinks into the seat Clyde’s just vacated. “Stupid aerial yoga,” he mutters under his breath, while Mom pours him a fresh cup of coffee in the mug she’s been drinking from, and puts it down on the table in front of him. “Why didn’t you stop me?” He’s clearly not expecting a reply, nor does he get one – Mom just giggles and raises her eyebrows at him.  
“Um, can you still drive,” Tweek asks; sneaking a sidelong glance at Dad as Mom puts down a plate of pancakes in front of him. Even picking up his knife and fork seems to hurt.  
“And a good morning to you too, son,” Dad mutters; rolling his eyes.  
Mr Donovan gives up his seat to Mom – seems he’s done eating, too – just as Clyde comes back down, carrying his phone in one hand and a pair of black dress shoes in the other. “Talk to Token,” he tells Tweek, holding his phone out until Tweek takes it. Then he pulls a shoeshine pad out of his trouser pocket, and hurries into the living room.  
Tweek blinks at the phone screen, which now has a super unflattering picture of Token on it, and says, “Hello?”  
“Tweek, hey,” Token says, and he sounds deathly embarrassed for some reason. “I just wanted to tell you, I can’t drive you, or come to the hospital until later. Because, um, I have to go to church.” He’s not even asking why Tweek’s at Clyde’s house this early in the morning – either Clyde’s already explained, or Token’s got too much other stuff going on for it to have registered.  
“ _You’re_ going to church,” Tweek asks. Why would Token choose _that,_ over visiting Craig? “Don’t you, like, not _believe_ in God?”  
“No, you don’t understand,” Token is saying, on the other end of the phone. “I _have_ to go to church.”  
“But…” Tweek is confused. “I thought you said you were an atheist?”  
Token groans. “I _am_ an atheist. But you don’t know black women, Tweek.” Wait, does he mean “Black women”, as in the women in his family, or as in black women in general? “Mom’s telling me to come to church with her and Dad.” Token sounds like he’d rather be going to the dentist. “So that’s what I have to do. To say thanks to dear old God for waking Craig up. I could argue,” he goes on, “And get grounded, and _still_ end up in church? Or I can just not bother arguing and go.”  
“Right.” Tweek would hate for Token to get grounded, and not be able to go visit Craig at all. “A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do,” he says, since the occasion seems to call for it.  
Token snorts. “Something like that. You should check if Jimmy’s going to church though? He’s made of sterner stuff than me, so I’d say probably not. And he can… kinda drive? Though I’m pretty sure his parents want the car.”  
“Oh, that’s okay,” Tweek says – he’s not getting in a car with someone who can _kinda_ drive – “If my dad can’t take us, there’s always a bus, right?”  
“I guess?” From the sound of that, Token can’t even _remember_ the last time he rode a bus. “I’ll see you later, all right? I’ve got to go. Tell Craig I said hi?”  
“Sure,” Tweek says, just as Token hangs up.  
“Of course your father’s going to drive us,” Mom says, reaching across the table to tuck a stray curl behind Dad’s ear. “Because we’re just _dying_ to meet Craig – aren’t we, Richie?”  
Dad growls something unintelligible around his mouthful of pancakes and jam, but Tweek can already tell he’s given up. 

Tweek just wants them all to get a move on, but Dad still needs to have a shower, and Mom can’t very well go to the hospital in a night gown and yellow crocks. She pulls him upstairs by the hand, excitable as a little girl – “You’ll help me pick out an outfit, won’t you, Tweek?”  
“Sure, Mom, but…” Seriously though, Tweek doesn’t even get what the difference is, because the two outfits she shows him are almost identical. There’s that dress she mentioned, with the coffee bean pattern printed on top of a beige zig-zaggy pattern. And it has these weird grandma ruffles down the front, but at least it’s nice and long, so Mom won’t freeze. It turns out the store carried a skirt in the same fabric, which she also bought, along with a plain white T-shirt that has a tiny Eiffel tower embroidered right above her heart. And, with her hat, that’s it. Turns out Dad was exaggerating a little, when he said she’d bought half the store.  
“Either way, I’ll have to wear this, too,” Mom is saying, holding up that mint green cardigan she picked up off the floor last night. “It’s not like it clashes or anything, right?”  
_Who cares?!_ Tweek has to close his eyes for a second. “Wear the dress,” he says, as firmly as he can manage. It’s too cold outside for a T-shirt, even with that chunky cardigan on top. Mom should _know_ that.  
“Oh, well, if you’re sure…”  
“Totally sure,” Tweek says, before hurries out into the hallway to knock on the bathroom door. “Hey Dad? How’s it going in there?”  
Dad’s reply is muffled by the sound of water, but that already tells Tweek all he needs to know. Jesus! And Tweek doesn’t even _believe_ in Jesus! But how slow can his parents even be? He’s dressed and ready; he even brushed his teeth while Dad was taking his pyjamas off!  
“Tweek!” Clyde’s shouting his name from the bottom of the staircase. He’s all ready for church now; hair slicked back, shoes all shiny… He’s even got his black suit jacket on, underneath his football jacket. “Take my keys, okay? You guys just lock up when you leave – and this one’s for the garage!”  
“Sure, okay,” Tweek replies, as he runs down the stairs. The garage key’s a weird shape, so at least that’ll be easy to remember.  
“I called Jimmy, too,” Clyde goes on, “And he’s definitely not coming to church, so he’ll come round to catch a ride with you guys. Don’t leave without him, okay?” He grins and winks when he’s said that last bit, like he wants to make sure Tweek knows he’s only kidding.  
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Tweek says, and honestly, he’s a little bit relieved. At the snail’s pace his parents are getting ready, chances are they _won’t_ make it to the hospital before Craig’s family does. And Jimmy does seem to have a way with Craig’s terrifying mother.  
“Craig’ll probably laugh, when I show up looking like this,” Clyde mutters, almost like he’s talking to himself, rather than to Tweek. Not that he looks _bad_ in a suit; for all that he’s totally not Tweek’s type. With that football jacket, and the one stray lock of hair that’s dangling over his forehead, Clyde’s got kind of a Grease vibe going on. “Anyway. See you at the hospital!”  
Tweek yelps in surprise when Clyde picks him up and hugs him, and has to grab onto the bannister so he won’t stumble when Clyde puts him down. Then he’s out the door, and his dad is right behind him, only pausing to give Tweek a quick smile and pat on the shoulder.  
“Huh,” he says out loud, as he sits down on the third step from the bottom. The Donovans – it’s just hit him, how they’ve not tried to invite his family along to their church _once._ Then he thinks about the note Craig wrote for Clyde: _Just because I believe in God, doesn’t mean I can’t believe in my friend._ Of course Clyde would think that way, when a guy like Mr Donovan brought him up. Tweek suddenly feels so filled up with warmth and, and _goodness,_ when he thinks about those two, that he has to hug himself and laugh out loud. How did he even _live_ for so long, without a single friend? Friends are the best, friends are the _best!_


	19. Turlingdromes, not turtledoves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YOU GUYS, we have more fanart! This time, it's from sweet_eijiro, and it is seriously gorgeous! Go have a look!!  
> https://www.instagram.com/p/Bw8JDgEAgEV/  
> I love the sassy captions. Don't be surprised if one of them finds its way into the story - just saying.
> 
> PS: OOPS I DID IT AGAIN: When I posted this chapter last night, I forgot to include the final paragraph. If Tweek has underpants gnomes to contend with, I seem to have a bad case of text editing gnomes. So if you've already read this chapter, do go check the new paragraph out, please and thank you... (･Θ･;)

This is literally the slowest morning _ever_. It’s five minutes to nine, and Tweek is fully dressed – with his black jeans, green converse and dark blue shirt under his parka, which he’s left open because he might as well save the extra warmth for when they _finally_ get to go outside. He’s gone from sitting on the staircase to pacing the floor, to sitting down again – this time leaning against the front door. As far as he knows, Mom didn’t think to pack her curling wand _or_ her makeup, so what on _Earth_ is taking her so long?! Dad being slow he can kind of understand, since his back hurts so much, but Mom really has no excuse.  
Growling quietly to himself, Tweek pulls out his phone. He’s been getting more and more notifications, most of them from Instagram, and the little “dings” have been driving him crazy. So he might as well open the app and see what the fuss is about.  
Huh, he’s been tagged in a picture? By _Henrietta,_ of all people?  
Tweek taps the little icon to get a closer look, and draws a sharp breath when he sees the picture all big on his phone screen. Because it’s them – the five of them, in Craig’s hospital room, all bundled up in a big, messy hug. If you enlarge it, you can even make out Stripe’s furry butt on Craig’s shoulder.  
The caption reads simply: “@craigtuckerphotos woke up today. Photo by @Clyde_donovan0410 ’s dad” and there are like, twelve or thirteen party-popper emojis after that. This is followed by a literal wall of comments; mostly classmates and people from school. It makes sense, Craig was always popular, and if this has been up since yesterday… The very last comment is from @JimmyValmer; “Turns out all we needed was 1 guinea pig and 1Tweek”; and he can’t help but snort out loud when he reads that one.  
Tweek wants this photo, though. He wants it on his desk back home, in a frame, just like those pictures Token had on his dresser. And he wants another one, with _five_ sets of converse nose-to-nose in a circle, and… Just pictures of the five of them, doing normal friend stuff.  
His inbox has so many messages in it, too – holy crap! And not just from people he’s already mutuals with, like Nicole and Scott Malkinson, but people like Wendy Testaburger and Heidi Turner! Is _this_ what it’s like, to be one of the popular kids? Having an inbox full of messages, and being tagged time after time in a reposted photo? Because half their _class_ seems to have reposted that picture of the five of them hugging, that’s how happy they all are to have Craig back.  
That wasn’t the first time he’s hugged Craig, though, Tweek realises. Not even the second; because he totally counts that time in his bedroom when Craig got upset, even though they weren’t able to touch, then. The first time… that had been on the school roof. When Tweek had run straight into Craig’s arms; and Craig had held him so tight, like he’d been scared the wind would just blow Tweek away. Tweek remembers Craig guiding him down the stairs, one arm still firmly around his shoulders, because Tweek had been crying too hard to see the steps properly. All the fear and adrenaline leaving his body at once, gasp by gasp. McCormick hadn’t followed them.  
Meanwhile Craig, calm again now, had kept up a stream of talk in his usual steady drawl. “That’s it, Tweek,” he’d said, “We’re almost at the bottom now. You’re doing great.” Not a sentence Tweek had ever heard leave Craig Tucker’s mouth before, but in its own way, that had been kind of nice. Knowing, underneath the mounting panic over what he’d almost done, that this gentler side of himself was something Craig was only showing to Tweek. “We’re gonna sit down somewhere afterwards, okay,” Craig had been saying, “And then you can tell me exactly what happen–”  
Then the door at the end of the stairwell had been yanked open, just as Tweek’s foot found the last step. Arms had reached inside to grab him, pull him out of Craig’s grip, while Tweek had yipped like a dog in startled protest. Any semblance of calm had been ripped away, as a medic in a black-and-white uniform dragged him into the hallway. So many voices, so many questions, but there had been one they repeated over and over. “Were you going to jump?” Again and again, until the simplest thing had just been to hang his head and whisper, “Yes.”  
It had all passed in a blur after that. The faces of his classmates lining the hallway, staring at him, as they led him to the parking lot out back. The cold air nipping at his cheeks, and Craig’s voice, angry and scared at the same time, demanding they let him ride in the ambulance with Tweek. A female medic’s calm, unapologetic voice, explaining to Craig why that was impossible.  
They hadn’t strapped him down, or anything like that. They’d let him just sit normally, on one of the fold-down seats in the back of the ambulance, and that female medic had taken a seat next to him. The last he’d seen of Craig was when she’d pulled the doors closed from inside the van – in true Craig Tucker style, he’d flipped the medic off, before he’d shouted, “You hang in there, Tweek! I’ll definitely come see you, okay?”  
And Tweek had whispered, “Okay,” back, but Craig probably hadn’t heard, over the sound of the ambulance engine starting up. The last thing he’d seen was that yellow puffball on top of Craig’s IKEA hat, before the doors closed and sealed the world away.  
“Tweek.”  
“Gaaah!” Tweek knocks his head against the door as he jerks his head up, but it’s only Dad, leaning heavily on the bannister as he takes the last couple of steps down the stairs, face pinched with pain.  
“Put your phone away, and let’s go,” Dad says, barely reacting to that scream at all, while Mom hurries in from the kitchen – when did she even come downstairs? – handing Tweek a smallish, yellow-brown packet wrapped in clingfilm.  
“Hold onto that,” she says, reaching past Tweek to grab Dad’s coat from the rack and hold it open for him. “Clyde asked me to bring it for Craig.”  
Tweek gets to his feet before he cautiously sniffs the packet, which faintly smells of lemons. “I’ll bring it,” he says, and slips it into his backpack, where it’s cushioned by that last pair of underpants he didn’t end up using. 

Dad’s carefully reversing the Datsun out of the Donovans’ garage and Mom is standing on the empty road, directing him by waving her arms, when Jimmy shows up. He’s wearing his school satchel slung across his back, stuffed full of _something,_ and he got Craig’s little sister in tow. She’s chatting excitedly to Jimmy, running to keep up with him as he hurries across the frozen sidewalk on his crutches fast enough to make Tweek nervous.  
“Good m-morning, Tweek,” he shouts, grinning from ear to ear. No freshly ironed suit for Jimmy; he’s just wearing normal clothes, same as Tweek is. “Nugget told me about the b-b-break in,” he adds, and suddenly, he isn’t smiling anymore. “B-bastards.”  
Tweek can’t help but laugh, though. “Poor Clyde, it’s bad enough Craig keeps saying it! Hello, Tricia,” he adds, squatting down so he won’t have to loom over her. Tweek remembers hating that, when he was little – and he’d been _very_ little; small enough they wouldn’t let him on fairground rides unless Dad came along and explained that he was just short for his age. “I guess your family’s going to the hospital, too,” he asks, trying not to sound so disappointed.  
“Nope,” Tricia tells him proudly. “Because I turned of all the alarms!”  
Tweek blinks at her. “What?”  
“Mom and Dad were all tired,” Tricia explains. “And Grandma, too. So I turned off the alarm clocks, and the alarm on Mom’s phone. Dad’s too old to even _use_ a phone alarm,” she adds, nodding sagely.  
“And then Tricia had b-breakfast with us,” Jimmy says, bending over to carefully muss her hair, one crutch tucked under his arm for balance. And Tricia leans into that touch, eager as a puppy, grinning in a way that makes Tweek realize she didn’t just run over there for Mrs Valmer’s cooking. Jimmy clearly has no idea, though – and perhaps that’s for the best.  
“Is Jimmy your favourite,” Tweek asks her, smiling so Tricia won’t think he means anything by it.  
“Yup!” Tricia gives him a big, guile-less grin in return, “But you’re number two!”  
“Thank you,” Tweek tells her, very seriously, as Mom comes over. “Mom, this is Craig’s sister, Tricia,” he says, as Tricia takes a step behind Jimmy and peeks out from behind his leg. “And Jimmy,” he adds, “Who’s _not_ going to church, right?”  
Jimmy snorts. “No w-way, Tweek,” he says firmly, as he shakes hands with Mom. “I’m a m-man of p-p-principles.”  
“You’re a pretty tall drink of water, too,” Mom says, eyeing Jimmy up. “You’d better have the front seat in a second.” Of course, Tweek made sure to brief his parents before they went outside, on how not to piss Jimmy off. He’s not sure if Dad was paying that much attention, but Mom clearly was – and she’s good at this sort of thing, anyway. “Hi there, sweetheart,” she’s saying, smiling down at Tricia the way only Mom can smile. “I bet you’re happy, after what happened yesterday?”  
“Uh-huh,” Tricia tells her, nodding. “Craig and Tweek are _boyfriends,_ ” she adds, in what she probably thinks is a whisper.  
“I know,” Mom says, cheerfully ignoring how much Tweek is blushing, and how hard Jimmy’s laughing at him for it. “Isn’t that just the nicest thing?”  
Thankfully, Dad’s got the Datsun all the way out in the driveway by now, so Tweek runs over to pull the garage door down, and lock it, before he pockets Clyde’s keys. By the time he’s climbed into the back seat next to Mom, Jimmy’s already tucked himself and his crutches into the passenger seat, and is introducing himself to Dad.  
“No, no, I remember you,” Dad is saying, as he manoeuvres the car out onto the main road. “You’re the one who hosted the talent show last term!”  
Through the back window, Tweek can see Tricia waving. So he nudges Mom, and they both wave back, while Craig’s little sister becomes a smaller and smaller red-haired speck on the lawn behind them.  
“So cute,” Mom mutters, as she finally turns around to sit the proper way.  
“If you’re thinking of k-k-kidnapping Tricia, get in line,” Jimmy quips. “My mom’s had d-dibs on her for years! One day, my parents will p-pick me up from school,” he goes on, getting into the groove of talking, “And I’ll be like, “Mom, what’s Tricia doing in the b-back seat?” And my m-mom’ll say, “Shut up, James! Ryan, don’t slow d-down until we’re in C-Canada.”  
“Hah!” Dad lets out one big laugh, while Mom doubles over, giggling helplessly. Tweek can’t help but laugh, too. Seriously, how does Jimmy do it?  
“So, Jimmy,” Dad says, as he pulls onto the main road, “Tweek tells us you’re an atheist?”  
“T-t-technically yes,” Jimmy says, and Tweek doesn’t need to know he’s rolling his eyes, “After Clyde lost his m-mom, T-Token and I both just…” Jimmy shrugs, “Stopped b-b-believing in it, I guess? But my p-p-parents think it’s a _phase._ ”  
“Well, good for you, Jimmy,” Mom says, and suddenly puts her hands down on Jimmy’s shoulders, giving them a quick pat, for all that they’ve only just met. “You should always stick to what you feel is right.”  
“My parents thought _everything_ I did was just a phase,” Dad chimes in, and there’s more than a small trace of bitterness in his voice, “Everything from the Hitch-Hiker’s Guide to vegetarianism; they even thought _my wife_ was a phase.”  
“They mellowed out when we moved back here and had Tweek,” Mom says, and of course she means “here” as in the United States, and not as in just Colorado. But Tweek’s got no desire to explain all of _that_ stuff to Jimmy – and _definitely_ not here and now.  
“And here we are,” Dad says, “Still not eating meat, still reciting Vogon poetry –”  
“That’s just you and Tweek, dear,” Mom interrupts him, just as Jimmy asks, “Vogon poetry?”  
“Oh, it’s, it’s from this old radio show?” Dad’s clearly expecting him to do a hard-sell on Hitch-Hiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, but Tweek’s never been good at stuff like this. “You might like it; it’s kind of funny, actually…”  
“Tweek,” Dad cuts him off, “Vogon poetry. Let’s go.”  
“Ugh, fine,” Tweek says, and closes his eyes, to let the weird sounds of the deliberately awful poem come to him. It’s so bad that, in the radio show, one of the aliens reads it out loud as a form of torture. “Oh freddled gruntbuggly,” he begins, and he can hear Dad joining in on that last non-word. They recite the rest of it together, and it all goes really well, until they get to the bit where Dad will _always, without fail_ get it wrong.  
“Seriously, Dad,” Tweek snaps, since he’s lost the rhythm anyway, “It’s foontling _turlingdromes,_ not turtledoves!”  
“I d-didn’t understand a _w-word_ of that,” Jimmy says, but his voice is full of wonder.  
“Nobody does, dear,” Mom says, “I think that’s the point? When we were in high school, Richard tried to _serenade_ me with that, once,” she goes on, closing her eyes and shaking her head a little. “He borrowed his brother’s guitar, but he only knew three chords. So he just sort of kept strumming, while he rattled the whole thing off. And when he was done, he yelled, “Helen! That’s the third worst poem in the _universe!_ ” Then he asked me if I _liked_ it,” she adds, before she laughs quietly to herself.  
Tweek, who’s heard this story before, suddenly finds that he hears… different things in it, now that _he’s_ in love. He can just picture Dad, emerging from the bushes, his hair full of leaves, one eye swollen partly shut after a “warning” from Mom’s other admirer – a nameless villain Dad still only refers to as “That Damn Jock”. And he can picture Mom, too, with her elbows on the windowsill. Already with her hair cut into her signature bob, though in those days, she used to cut it herself, so maybe it would’ve been longer on one side. He imagines her dreamy, far-away smile as she tilts her head and listens. Maybe that had been the moment she decided Dad was the one she wanted, with all his weirdness thrown in, or maybe she’d known that all along.  
“Did he say turtledoves or turlingdromes,” Tweek asks her, and Mom frowns as she digs through her memory.  
“You know, Tweek, I honestly can’t remember.”  
Meanwhile, Dad is launching into his Hitch-Hiker’s Guide to the Galaxy sales pitch, with his fairly accurate impersonation of Marvin the Paranoid Android thrown in for good measure. “They made a movie of it, a few years ago, but this thing’s unfilmable,” he’s saying, and Jimmy’s nodding along. Either he’s given up completely, or he actually likes the idea of a show that can _only_ run in your imagination. “I ripped the CD’s, so I can get you the mp3’s later,” Dad promises, “If our computer still works, that is. I didn’t really get the chance to check.”  
That sucks all the happiness right out of the Datsun. “Bastards,” Jimmy mutters, this time without stuttering, and nobody disagrees with him. 

In the hospital corridor, three doors down from Craig’s room, Tweek has to put his foot down. “No,” he says firmly, folding his arms and eyeballing first Mom, then Dad. “You two need to wait until I come out and get you.”  
“But, why,” Dad is saying, and he looks so confused that it almost drives Tweek crazy.  
“Because! Because Craig’s never even _met_ you before!” Tweek draws a deep breath through his nostrils, remembering Craig’s father last night. How his only response, when Craig told his whole family about the two of them, had been a very flat “I see”. So it really isn’t _right,_ Tweek decides, to get annoyed with his own parents, when they’re actually happy for him. “I’m sorry, he just… He gets really tired, just talking to people he knows, okay?”  
“That’s fine, Tweek,” Mom says, making little shooing motions with one hand, while she wraps the other around Dad’s left arm. “Come on, let’s go grab those chairs down there!” Then she tugs on his arm, until Dad reluctantly goes with her.  
“You’re t-totally embarrassed, aren’t you?”  
Tweek groans. “Like _you_ wouldn’t be,” he says, glaring up at Jimmy.  
“Nah,” Jimmy says, as he hobbles over to the door, “In m-my f-family, I’m the embarrassing one.” Balancing his weight on his left crutch, Jimmy pushes the handle down, before shouldering the door open – all before Tweek has a chance to stop him. Oh well, it figures Jimmy would know how to open a door on his own; even though the hospital doors are stupidly heavy. Tweek can at least add his weight to it, pushing with both hands.  
At first, it looks like Craig is still asleep. But he must’ve heard the door, because he slowly turns his head, looking at the two of them through the metal framework of the bed. His black hair is in sharp contrast to the white sheets; it never stops being odd, seeing him without his hat. Craig’s lips part in a smile; and Tweek runs over there, not caring that it’s unfair to Jimmy, leaving him behind.  
As soon as he’s reached Craig’s bedside though, he stops, suddenly shy. “Hey,” he whispers, then realises Craig is trying to sit up, and reaches out to help him. But Craig turns his chin up, and his left hand is suddenly wrapped around the back of Tweek’s neck, before his lips bump clumsily against Tweek’s and his tongue is inside Tweek’s mouth. His first kiss. It tastes… minty, but it only lasts for a few seconds. Tweek barely has time to react before Craig sinks back down, exhausted and panting. But he’s grinning wolfishly up at Tweek, who can’t seem to stop blushing.  
“I rang for a nurse… at seven am,” Craig says, covering the tracheotomy tube so he can talk. “Just so I… could brush my teeth.”  
Tweek starts to laugh helplessly, hanging over the bedframe. “I, I appreciate,” he begins, but he’s laughing too hard to finish that sentence. It’s too stupid. It’s too cute. Tweek’s so happy that he’s actually starting to feel dizzy.  
“Where’s my k-kiss,” Jimmy is saying, joining them on the other side of the bed.  
Craig just flips him off in response, but his grin is too wide for anyone to believe he’s actually pissed.  
“So, Tweek’s p-p-parents are here,” Jimmy tells him, carefully balancing one crutch against the bed so he can swing his satchel off his shoulder. “To see you.”  
That wipes the grin off Craig’s face right away – he looks almost scared.  
“You, you don’t _have_ to meet them, or anything,” Tweek blurts out, “They can just, just come back some other time! Okay?”  
“No,” Craig rasps, and now it’s his turn to blush, “I want to, but…”  
“I b-brought you some things,” Jimmy says, popping his satchel open like he’s some kind of travelling salesman. “I f-figure we’re p-pretty much the same size, r-right?” He’s pulling out a grey pair of sweatpants, and a black sweatshirt with a skull on it, and the words Cereal Killer sort of wrapped around the skull. When he looks more closely, Tweek can see that the skull is actually made up from lots of cornflakes in a bowl – there’s even a spoon sticking out! That’s actually pretty funny…  
Craig is eyeing the sweatshirt dubiously, but it’s not like Jimmy packed any alternatives. “Thanks,” he says, then looks up at the IV-bag hanging on a stand above his head, “But can we… fit that through…?”  
“W-we can try,” Jimmy says, shrugging like he knows it’s gonna work out just fine.  
In the end, it takes all three of them to get Craig dressed, to Craig’s obvious embarrassment. Tweek’s just relieved Jimmy can stand on his own without, well, tipping over, but his legs seem to hold him up fine if he’s just standing on the spot. Tweek quickly figures out how to lower the bed, and the shapeless hospital pants come off with one yank, though he’s sure to avert his eyes once he’s got them balled up in his hands. “I, um, I happened to pack some underpants,” he mutters, “And they’d probably fit you, since you’re so, um…”  
“Skeletal,” Jimmy offers helpfully.  
“Shut up, Jimmy,” Tweek snaps, and throws the ugly hospital pants in Jimmy’s general direction. Jimmy effortlessly dodges them.  
“That would be… great,” Craig says, all out of breath – just from sitting up and swinging his legs over the bed. “I mean. Underpants. Thanks.”  
“Gnomes, huh,” Jimmy says, as Tweek pulls the boxers out from under Clyde’s packet of lemon bars. Oh crap, was _that_ the pair he brought? A quick glance shows him that yes, he’s about to give his boyfriend a pair of green underpants covered in garden gnomes – some holding pick-axes, some posing next to a toadstool, and some with their thumbs pushed under their little rope belts.  
“Uh, it’s like a, a kind of joke I have with my dad,” Tweek mutters, ducking his head to hide his blush as he squats down on the floor to help guide Craig’s feet through the leg holes. “When I was little, for some reason, my underpants kept disappearing? So my dad made up this story about how the gnomes were stealing them…” He pulls them up as far as he can, all the way to Craig’s knees. “Um, are you okay to stand up now?”  
Craig nods, and it says a lot about how weak he is that he lets _Jimmy_ prop him up, when he finally manages to haul himself to his feet.  
“I w-want to know m-more about these underpants gnomes,” Jimmy says, with one arm on the bed to keep _himself_ steady, and the other around Craig’s torso.  
“Where do I start,” Tweek mutters, as he carefully pulls the boxers on completely. “We had like, a whole gnome _cosmology_ set up! Like, who did what job based on the colour of their hats… You can sit back down now,” he adds, pushing Craig gently back towards the mattress. It’s funny, how _he_ doesn’t feel awkward about this at all, even though Craig clearly does. There’s just… nothing romantic about Craig being so unwell, nothing to get worked up about. And it’s… nice, to be able to do _something_ for him.  
Putting the sweatshirt on Craig actually turns out to be the hardest thing, because of the IV-bag. The three of them have to _discuss_ how to do it, which would be hilarious if it wasn’t also so awful. In the end, it’s a bit like Indiana Jones snatching that statue off the booby-trapped ledge; Jimmy has to sit next to Craig on the bed, holding the end of the sleeve open. Meanwhile Tweek, who has the smallest hands, slides one hand up the sleeve and the other, holding the bag, through the neckhole and into the sleeve from above. He can hear himself grunting out loud, that’s how hard he has to concentrate, as he transfers the bag with its precious contents from one hand to the other, and slowly slides it down the length of Craig’s bony arm. But it works. Thank Buddha, Ganesh and Santa Claus, they manage to pull it off, and hang the bag back up on that stand like nothing’s even happened.  
“It’s like our very own O-oceans Eleven m-movie,” Jimmy says, like this is a pretty cool thing, really. “R-right here in your h-h-hospital room, Craig!”  
Craig gives him an exhausted, lop-sided grin, and shakes his head when Tweek asks if he wants to lie back down. “It’s better like this,” he says, and draws a piping breath, “Meeting them.”  
Ah, right – he wants to do this sitting up. That makes sense. “Don’t be scared,” Tweek whispers; leaning in close so he can give Craig a quick, reassuring cuddle. “It’s just my parents.”  
Craig gives Tweek a disbelieving look. “Just… your parents,” he rasps, before he takes his hand off his neck so he can rummage through the drawer of the nightstand. He pulls out his blue hat, and at least he’s able to put the hat on completely on his own. He couldn’t do that yesterday.  
“They’re not gonna eat you,” Tweek teases, and gives Craig the world’s most gentle nudge with his elbow. “We’re vegetarians, remember?”  
Craig gives him an eye-roll, and a weak nudge back. But then he nods. 

“Craig,” Dad says, drawing the “A” out, in the sort of voice you’d use on children and small animals. He limps over to the bed to pick up Craig’s right hand in both of his own, pumping it vigorously in spite of how he claims he’s barely got enough arm strength left to drive. “It’s so nice to finally meet you!”  
Tweek drags one of the visitors’ chairs over from where they’ve been put up against the wall, and takes the opportunity to whisper, “Dad!” as he lets it drop right behind his father.  
Mom, who’s followed his lead and gone to get a chair for herself, is at least _moderately_ less embarrassing. “Hi Craig,” she says, and gives him a quick smile. “Jimmy,” she goes on, with a studied casualness that even Token would approve of, “Do you want a seat?”  
“Thanks, I’m f-fine over here M-Mrs Tweek,” Jimmy replies, from his perch next to Craig. It hits Tweek that maybe Craig needs the assurance of having him there, shoulder to shoulder, though you’d never think so from just looking at his perfectly blank face.  
“Hi,” he says, covering the hole in his neck with his left hand, while he’s using his right to prop himself up – now that he’s finally managed to pull it from Dad’s grip. No doubt Craig needs to recover his balance, after that Handshake of Handshakes, and make sure he doesn’t just slide off the bed. “It’s nice to… meet you, too.”  
Dad finally takes a seat, while he groans and winces at the pain in his back. “Aerial yoga,” he says, when Craig and Jimmy exchange a puzzled look. “I don’t recommend it. But, Craig!” There it is again, that cloyingly friendly tone. “It’s so great, how you’re back in the land of the living!”  
Tweek doesn’t even realise he’s started tugging at his hair with _both_ hands, until Mom reaches up and gently smacks his arm, saying, “Tweek. Leave your hair alone.”  
“Uh,” Tweek replies, and lets his hands drop to his sides. Should he sit down on Craig’s other side? Would that look weird? Not that he _could_ sit still anyway; he’s feeling way too jumpy for that. As he starts to pace behind the two chairs his parents have taken, Tweek can’t help but notice how Jimmy’s got his hand on Craig’s back, slowly rubbing it from side to side. Hah, if that were Tweek, he’d probably set that sweatshirt on _fire_. Seriously, it’s lined with fleece, right? Isn’t fleece supposed to be super flammable? It’s better to walk some of this excess energy off, with his hands firmly balled up in the pockets of his jeans, so he doesn’t start pulling his own hair again.  
“To think you two would end up together, after that fight you had when you were little,” Dad is saying, laughing as he shakes his head. “You broke four of Tweek's ribs, remember!” Jesus, Tweek should be doing damage control here, not freaking out!  
“Yeah, but I broke Craig's _nose,_ ” he all but yells, desperately leaping to Craig’s defence. “That’s way worse!” He’s always suspected Craig’s nose didn’t heal quite right, either – that it’s _his_ fault Craig’s voice is all flat and nasal.  
“I d-didn’t join our c-class until f-f-fourth grade,” Jimmy chimes in, and he seems to find all this way funnier than he has any right to, “So I m-missed out on all that.”  
“It was just like Thor… versus Iron Man,” Craig drawls, and Tweek can't help but snort. “Only, you know… smaller.”  
“Anyway,” Mom says, with a firm little smile. “That’s all water under the bridge now. Tweek showed me some videos of your guinea pig in the car,” she goes on, and Tweek almost throws his arms around her neck and hugs her, for all that Craig and Jimmy are sitting _right there._ “I had no idea you could teach them tricks! Was it difficult?”  
It’s weird, but nice, how it suddenly stops being awkward. Like there’s a, a butt-sniffing period, like what dogs do when they first meet? When they need to figure each other out, only that can’t be done without showing something you wouldn’t normally show. Whether it’s your feelings, or your butthole; it’s still the same principle. After Craig’s told Mom about how he started training Stripe, and Jimmy’s mentioned that Craig likes science fiction, Dad’s eyes light up. That’s the moment, he realises, when Dad stops doing that super annoying “invalid speak” or whatever it was. When he starts firing off the names of authors, and demanding favourite titles.  
“Asimov?”  
“Caves of Steel. And Naked Sun.”  
“Not Foundation?”  
“It’s good, but… I like those more.”  
“Fair enough. Heinlein?”  
“Podkayne of Mars.”  
“Really? But isn’t the ending a little…?”  
“That’s… what makes it good,” Craig says, as firmly as he can when he has to stop for a breath mid-sentence. He looks over at Tweek, then jerks his head a little over his shoulder. Pats the empty space on the bed next to him, like he’s saying, _Come here?_  
Should he? Can he sit still enough, now? And does that even matter, Tweek thinks. Suddenly remembering that phone call in the middle of the night, when Craig admitted he was scared to go to sleep. At least he can sit still enough not to slide off the bed.  
“Your taste is weird,” Dad says, pointing right at Craig, as Tweek hops up next to him, “But I respect that.”  
“Thanks, Dad,” Tweek drawls, raising one eyebrow, while Craig slips his right arm around Tweek’s shoulders and tries to pull him closer. Tweek obligingly shuffles over, until he’s properly tucked under Craig’s arm. Craig smells _right_ now, even though he also smells of hospital. He smells more like _himself,_ and not at all like he’s rotting away.  
“You’re welcome,” Dad says, completely distracted, “Now, Craig – Phillip Dick?”  
“Galactic Pot Healer,” Craig replies, now covering the neck-hole with his left hand. Then he grins down at Tweek, who is confused. Really? _That’s_ a book title?  
“I liked that one,” Jimmy says suddenly, from his spot on Craig’s other side. “Token r-read it out loud to you. The whole th-thing,” he adds, when Craig opens his eyes wider. “B-but have you heard about that Hitch-H-h-hiker’s Guide thing?” From the look on Jimmy’s face, he’s doing his very best to help grease the wheels.  
Craig pulls a face. “I tried watching it… but it was kinda bad?” He sounds apologetic; like he’s worried he’ll offend Dad by not liking it or something. “And I could never… get into reading it.”  
“So you’ve _never_ heard the radio plays,” Dad exclaims, and then he’s off again, explaining all about how Arthur Dent gets to travel back to a time _before_ the Earth got blown up, and how Craig must’ve given up _before_ he got to the Restaurant at the End of the Universe. “Which is the _best_ bit,” Dad is saying, “When they go down to the car park and find Marvin, who’s aged a few thousand years because they forgot to bring him along, but of course he’s an android, so…”  
Tweek lets his eyes slip shut, and leans carefully against Craig’s bony chest. Allows himself to imagine, just for a second, having Craig over back home. The four of them around the dinner table, while Craig and Dad discuss some novel Tweek’s never heard of, waving their arms and throwing around words like _hyperspace_ and _wormhole._  
That’s when the door opens, Craig’s father steps inside, and the spell is broken. Tweek can’t help but jump off the bed, as the rest of the Tucker family files in after Mr Tucker. Tweek can feel a tick starting up in his right eye, too. He ducks his head to try and hide how badly he’s blushing. Mom also stands up, and she keeps poking Dad’s arm until he _finally_ realises they’re not alone anymore.  
“Oh, um,” Dad says, painfully getting to his feet and holding his hand out for a shake. “Hello. Thomas, isn’t it?”  
“Yes,” Mr Tucker says stiffly, shaking Dad’s hand – more out of habit, than because he actually wants to, judging by that look on his face.  
Meanwhile, Tricia runs right up to the bed and demands Jimmy give her a hand up. She’s snuggled up between him and her brother in no time, and Craig’s carefully mussing her hair – that’s the hand he’s still got a tube in, after all. The hand they spent a hundred years pulling through a sleeve.  
“Sir Lancelot,” Craig’s grandma says, peering up at Tweek, who can’t help but twitch.  
“Uh,” he says. “Hi?” She doesn’t look like Craig at all, except that there’s a sort of… tenacity to her, a feeling that she’s never backed down from anyone in her whole, long life, that kind of reminds Tweek of Craig.  
Only Mrs Tucker doesn’t come all the way in – she’s stepped back from the door a little, but she’s still holding it open, and Tweek feels a lump start to form in his throat when he realizes this is a hint.  
“Come on, Tweek,” Mom says, weaving her arm through his – she can take a hint, too. “We need to drive out to IKEA, and pick up a new mattress for you!” It’s painfully obvious that this is the first thing that’s popped into her head – not in the least because Dad, still high on talking science fiction with someone who loves it just as much as he does, says, “We do?”  
This is all so unfair! Here it was starting to feel like he’d get to spend the whole day with Craig, but… Craig looks just as disappointed as Tweek feels; he even covers the hole in his neck so he can say, “But… but you don’t have to go.”  
“I’m sorry, Craig,” Tweek mutters, as he starts to tug on the hair right at the nape of his neck. Old habits die hard. “Maybe I can… come back later?”  
“Maybe,” Mrs Tucker says, though to Tweek, it sounds more like a threat than a promise.  
“But _Jimmy’s_ staying,” Tricia says hopefully, “Right, Jimmy?”  
“Sure, p-princess,” Jimmy replies, raising his left hand like he’s about to wave goodbye.  
“Have you even had breakfast yet,” Mrs Tucker is saying, and that’s when Tweek remembers the lemon bars. He quickly shakes Mom’s grip off, slips his backpack off his shoulder. Shoves his hand inside and yanks the little packet out.  
“This is from Clyde,” he yells, as he dashes across the room to press the packet into Craig’s hand. Tweek suddenly wants nothing more than to try for another quick, minty kiss, but he can’t. Not with Craig’s family in here, never mind his own parents. “And, and I’ll definitely be back later,” he says, much more quietly, straightening his shoulders. “I promise.”  
Craig just nods, and leans forwards, resting his forehead against Tweek’s for just a second. His skin still isn’t very warm, but it’s not slick with cold sweat, either. Bit by bit, inch by inch, Craig really is getting better.  
“Just wait for me,” Tweek whispers, as he forces himself to pull away.

“We’re not really going to IKEA, are we,” Dad asks, as he winds the car window down, sliding the little paper ticket into a narrow slot in the boom gate. Mom's already paid the parking charge on the machine over in one corner. Tweek watches the boom rise in sullen silence. “Because Roger seemed to think the Blacks have a spare mattress we can borrow."  
“Of course we’re not going to IKEA.” Mom’s back in her usual spot in the front seat, warming her hands over the air vent. Tweek’s not the only one who’s always forgetting his gloves somewhere. “I just… didn’t want to leave Tweek alone with them. It’s not like you can’t go back today,” she turns to Tweek, raising her voice a little after he turns his head to look listlessly out the window. Good. _Let_ her get annoyed. Mom had no business forcing him to leave like that, without even saying goodbye properly.  
“They just need to get used to the idea.” Dad’s taking his conciliatory voice out for a spin – it’s not often Tweek and Mom manage to piss each other off at the same time. “Of you two dating. I mean, I still remember burpring you, and getting puked on! Just the idea that you’re old enough to _date_ is weird.” Tweek catches Dad’s grin in the rear-view mirror, and has to bite his lip so he won’t return it.  
They emerge from the parking garage and into the light – it’s overcast, but still oddly bright out. “Either of you two got your house keys,” Dad asks, as he pulls out onto the road. “Roger offered to drop by the house when they were done, so I gave him my key.”  
“Yeah,” Tweek mutters, at the same time as Mom says, “Of course.”  
“Good. Let’s just swing by the shop for some garbage bags, then.” He means the coffee shop, and that does make sense – they order everything wholesale through Tweak Bros, so that’s where everything gets delivered to and stored.  
Mom nods her agreement. “We’d better bring two rolls,” she says, reaching out to turn the radio on. “Oh, and detergents,” she adds, just as a song starts to play.  
“Trailer for sale or rent,” Roger Miller croons, “Rooms to let, fifty cents…” King of the Road, huh? That’s… strangely appropriate. Bobbing his head in time to the music, Tweek gradually manages to zone his parents’ voices out. Dad’s muttering about the road being closed now – seriously, road-works on a Sunday? Maybe there’s been an accident – and they end up having to go the long way, around the area people still call SODOSOPA. That name seems to have stuck, even though there are junkies sleeping in the redeveloped buildings now. Tweek remembers Dad worrying, back then, that the new dining district was going to steal their customers – he really needn’t have.  
McCormick lives in there, somewhere, in the rabbit warren of hovels and abandoned cars. Just thinking about him is making Tweek feel nauseous. He’s got Craig’s letters now, and who knows what he’s planning on doing with them? It’s not like he’d have suspected how they came to be written, chances are he just assumed Tweek did it, on one of his crazier days… Tweek shudders, as he imagines Cartman and McCormick standing in the hallways at school, handing out photocopies of the letters like they’re flyers for a concert. He tries telling himself McCormick can’t _afford_ to spend the money on photocopy cards, but Cartman’s a spoilt asshole, and always seems to get a big allowance from his mom. _He’d_ probably think it was a good investment, even if McCormick –  
McCormick. Something bright orange outside the car window suddenly catches Tweek’s eye, just as they’re driving past the U-STOR-IT. A bright orange parka with a fur-lined hood, right there…! Tweek sees it all in a split second, the two tall, thin boys, locked in a furious, silent fight. Pushing, punching, as they stumble right into the road.  
“Stop the car,” he yells, and Dad slams his foot on the pedal, so hard that Mom almost hits her head on the dashboard.  
His green hat’s been knocked askew, curly red hair spilling out, blood seeping down his chin from his split lip. Tweek recognizes Broflofski in an instant, as he staggers and catches his balance against the side of the Datsun. It’s the look in his eyes that makes Tweek’s mind up – that resigned look that says he knows he’s outmatched.  
He pops his seatbelt off, slides across the empty seat and swings the car door open. “Kyle,” he yells, “Get in!”  
Broflofski only hesitates for a moment, before he throws himself inside the car, landing on all fours on the floor. It’s up to Tweek to shut the door behind him, as McCormick’s fist lands on the glass, and Dad revs the engine hard enough to throw him back against the seats. If SODOSOPA has a speed limit, Dad is definitely breaking it, as they leave McCormick behind, a bright orange figure standing in a cloud of exhaust.


	20. Thanks for the halogen-bulbs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took forever to write, because it's so damn _long_. Sorry about the wait! I hope you'll enjoy it, and that it'll answer some of your questions! Please note, I am taking a LOT of liberties with the supporting characters here, but it seemed necessary, in order to flesh some of them out a little bit. 
> 
> The only reason Jimmy would possibly pose for a photo with fries up his nose, is to imitate the famous torture scene from A Fish Called Wanda. In case you've never heard of this movie, I've got the scene for you right here:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MuWwCUXGzWE

It had been his first winter in South Park, and Tweek had been desperately lonely. He’d done his best to hide it, of course. After he got out of the hospital, he’d caught a cold, and the cough had been so bad he’d rebroken two of those ribs Craig busted. In the time he’d had to take off school, with his days spent napping and coughing on a mattress in the back room of Tweak Bros, Craig seemed to have moved on from their cautious truce. He’d been too involved with the friends he already had. So Tweek had just watched the three of them from afar, desperately wishing for a place in their little gang. He’d been too shy to walk over to them and _ask_ if he could play too, or just hang out.  
That was why, when Tweek had opened his front door that one Saturday to find Marsh, Broflofski and Cartman standing outside, he’d actually been _happy._ “How’s, how’s Kenny,” he’d asked, because it was common knowledge that Kenny McCormick was in hospital, and that it was serious. Their class had been fundraising to help pay for his treatment, not that a bake-sale and lottery tickets probably amounted to very much.  
“He’s still sick,” Marsh had said, all shifty-eyed because he couldn’t bring himself to go visit his friend. This was common knowledge, too.  
“That’s why we’ve selected _you_ to be our new fourth friend,” Broflofski had declared, flashing a bright, confident smile at Tweek.  
“Me?” It wasn’t like he’d even known them very well. Tweek had once been tacked onto their little group, to write a report for school. They’d done it here, and Dad had helped out – more than he should have, probably, but he’d been so keen for Tweek to make some friends. But that had been _it._ “Why me?”  
“Why not,” Marsh had countered, shrugging.  
“Because we picked you?” Cartman had sounded almost surprised that Tweek would even question this.  
“Come on,” Broflofski had said, jerking his head at the road behind them. “My mom gave me a carrot. We’re gonna build a snowman!”  
“Don’t lie, Kyle,” Cartman had said, with a completely straight face, “You grew that carrot out of your ass. Ginger Jews can do that,” he’d added, for Tweek’s benefit, surprising a startled laugh out of him. He’d laughed even harder when Kyle had scooped up some snow in his bright green mittens, yanked Cartman’s collar open, and shoved it down the fat boy’s neck.  
“You racist sack of shit,” Kyle had shouted, and Tweek had been filled with breathless admiration, that Kyle actually dared to use words like that – and _outside,_ too!  
“Okay,” Tweek had said, mind made up. “I, I just need to get my jacket!” He’d thought hanging out with those three would be _fun._

In the minute or so of total speechlessness that follows their bizarre rescue operation, Dad switches off the radio, and Kyle Broflofski carefully gets up off the floor. He slides his butt up on the back seat, panting like he’s run a mile. His left eye is starting to swell and turn purple, his knuckles are all scraped up, and the way he’s hunching over means he probably got punched pretty hard in the stomach.  
“You boys should put seatbelts on,” Mom says, struggling to keep her voice even, as she pulls a packet of Kleenex out of her handbag and tosses them onto the middle seat. “And don’t bleed on the upholstery.” Her cold tone is jarring; Mom _never_ goes around being mean to people. But then, she knows very well who Kyle Broflofski’s friends are.  
“Yes, Mrs Tweak,” Broflofski says, plugging his seatbelt in with a decisive snap. _His_ hands don’t seem to shake at all, which, in Tweek’s opinion, is a little unfair. “Thanks.”  
“Don’t thank us,” Dad says, and his tone isn’t exactly warm, either. “Picking you up was Tweek’s decision.”  
Broflofski opens his mouth, but Tweek cuts him off, before he has a chance to say thanks again. Because there are actually levels of embarrassment the human mind can’t _cope_ with. “What happened,” he asks – it’s the first thing he can think of.  
Broflofksi makes a quiet, snorting sound, and it takes Tweek a second to realise that the other boy is laughing. “I told Kenny our friendship was over,” he says, his face twisting with pain as he finally sits up straight. “Ah, damn it. I confronted him over what he’d done to Tweek, that day he almost… you know.”  
“Almost jumped to his death,” Dad says, and Tweek knows the reason his voice has gone all flat is that Dad must be remembering it. Who’d phoned his parents, anyway? He remembers asking Dad, sitting at the Intensive Care unit in the backless hospital robe they’d given him, who was watching the coffee shop since they were both there. How Dad’s voice – which had been just as flat as it is now – had suddenly cracked. “Who _cares_ about the coffee shop,” he’d yelled, before he’d hugged Tweek tight, sobbing so hard that it had felt like being hugged by an earthquake.  
“Yeah,” Broflofski’s voice shakes a little, now, but he quickly gets himself back under control. “Anyway, I told him I don’t want anything more to do with an attempted murderer like him, and Kenny didn’t, ah… He didn’t take that very well.”  
“Clearly not,” Mom says, and from that look on her face in the rear-view mirror, she’s doing her level best not to feel sorry for Broflofski. “Richard, that first-aid kit we keep in the shop –”  
“The shop’s too close,” Dad interrupts her, as they can see the corner of Tweak Bros’ flat roof just up the road. “He can make it there on foot in time to catch up with us.” No need to ask who Dad’s talking about, that’s painfully obvious. “We’ll just have to drop him off at the Broflofski’s.”  
“No, please,” Broflofski yelps, and it’s the most emotion he’s shown since hurtling himself inside the Datsun, “My mom’ll shit herself! I mean… Sorry.” He looks down at his own hands, dangling between his knees, and starts picking at the bloodied scabs that are forming over his knuckles.  
Mom draws a long breath through her nose, like she’s taking that extra time to filter out the things she _wants_ to say, but knows she shouldn’t. “You know, Kyle,” she says, like she’s picking this thought out of thin air, “I had a phone-call from your mother once, when you were all around eight or nine. She told me Tweek was a bad influence on you, and that she didn’t want him hanging around you anymore.”  
“What,” Tweek exclaims, struck by the bone-deep unfairness of that. Stan's gang had made him do all sorts of awful stuff, and it hadn’t been any fun at all! There was that one time, when they forced him to sneak into the hospital with them, just so they could go look at a dead body while he stood lookout! Not that he’d even wanted to look at the body, of course – but they’d _always_ given him shitty jobs like that. _Watch the door, carry the stuff; pay for that thing because we used up our allowances already…_  
“I’m so sorry,” Broflofsky mutters, still not touching the packet of tissues that lies between him and Tweek on the middle seat. “If it makes you feel any better, Mrs Tweak,” he shrugs, “Tweek had already friend-dumped us all by then.”  
Huh, that’s a… different way of looking at it. Tweek just remembers losing it at those three one day, in the middle of one of the crazy “adventures” they’d dragged him on. He’d been shaking from head to toe, screaming himself hoarse. Yelling that he’d _had_ it, and never wanted to see them again. Which of course he’d had to do anyway, just a day or two later, since they were still in the same class. That had been ironic. They’d all been so shocked, though. That he, the spazzy loner new kid, would reject hanging out with _them_.  
Tweek picks up the Kleenex packet, pulls a tissue out, and spits on it. “Kyle,” he says, “Tip your head back and hold still, all right?”  
Broflofski – no, Kyle – looks up abruptly, all startled, but he doesn’t say anything. He just does what he’s told; angles his chin so Tweek can carefully dab the little bits of dirt and gravel off his bleeding, quivering bottom lip.  
“I think the first-aid kit at home was still intact,” Dad says, as he reaches over to turn the radio back on. “And we can put some frozen peas on that eye.”  
“Hey, ho, let’s go,” Joey Ramone shouts, right in the middle of Blitzkrieg Bop, as Kyle gently pulls the tissue from Tweek’s fingers, before pushing his hand away. “Shoot ‘em in the back, now!” Staring fixedly up at the ceiling, while his fist curls up around the Kleenex. Like he’s _willing_ himself not to cry. For some reason, that actually makes Tweek like him a little bit. It can’t have been easy, for a logical creature like Kyle. To have been caught between the rock of his own morals and the hard place that is Kenny McCormick.  
Tweek sighs, and puts his hand down flat, between Kyle’s shoulder blades – just like Clyde did for _him,_ a few days ago. He catches Mom looking at him in the mirror, and decides he’s long done with being mad at her. Mom’s probably thinking along those lines, too, because they start to smile at exactly the same time. 

Dad’s so used to backing the Datsun up their driveway that he doesn’t realize there’s a shiny black BMW in the way until it’s almost too late. He swerves, startles into swearing, before he finds a space to park in – behind a very familiar navy-blue Prius. Token’s mom is in the BMW’s front seat, leaning out the window to give them an apologetic wave, while Token and his dad are dragging a mattress over the folded-down back seats and out of the trunk.  
“Token,” Tweek shouts, popping his seatbelt and jumping out of the car before it’s even stopped rolling. “Wait, I’ll open the front… door?” It’s already open, he realizes, and Bebe Stevens is walking backwards out of it, dragging a black garbage bag outside and all the way down the front steps.  
“Tweek,” she yells, so startled that she almost trips, “You’re not supposed to be here!”  
“I, uh, I live here?”  
“Well, yes, but…”  
“Gangway,” Scott Malkinson shouts, from inside the house. Bebe jumps off the steps and into the flower-bed before Scott comes outside, carrying the front end of Tweek’s old, shredded-up mattress behind him. “Oh crap,” he yells, when he spots Tweek, and drops his end of the mattress. “Clyde, they’re back already!”  
“What?!” Clyde sounds so horrified that Tweek starts to laugh.  
“Dude,” Kyle says, walking up behind him. “What happened to your _house?_ ”  
“Kenny McCormick’s what happened,” Bebe says waspishly, folding her arms under her breasts. “And Eric Cartman. You want to do me a favour, Kyle? Then drag that to the Dumpster,” she adds, tossing her curls at the garbage bag. It sounds more like an order than a request.  
“Yeah, all right,” Kyle says, as he pushes past Tweek, grunting as he swings the bag up on his shoulder.  
“Be careful, man,” Scott shouts, from over by the door. “There’s glass in there. C’mon Clyde, let’s get this thing outside!”  
Now that he knows what to look for, it’s easy to recognize some of the cars lining the road – there’s Mr Donovan’s Rabbit, and Kevin’s silver Ford, and...  
“GAH!” Tweek jumps as Dad’s puts an arm around his shoulders. When he looks up, he sees Dad staring at the house like _he_ can’t believe what’s happening, either.  
Mom is running past them and up to the BMW, introducing herself and shaking Mrs Black’s hand through the car window, even though they’re bound to have met before at PTA meetings and stuff. “…and thank you so much for bringing your spare mattress, we’ll return it as soon as we can,” she’s saying, gripping Mr Black’s arm, her voice all thick.  
Meanwhile, Scott and Clyde have managed to manoeuvre Tweek’s old mattress out of the house, tipping it over on its side and leaning it against the garden fence. “We thought we’d be done before you got back!” Clyde is hurrying down the front lawn towards them – he’s changed out of his suit, into a paint-splattered pair of old jeans, and a black Adidas sweatshirt that’s got holes everywhere – one of his bare elbows is even poking right out through the fabric. “Everybody came to help out, so…”  
The house is full of people, Tweek realizes, as Clyde drags him inside. Mom and Dad follow them, holding hands and not talking at all, as they look around. “We didn’t even plan this,” Clyde’s saying, talking over his shoulder to all three of them. “Dad and Mr Valmer started talking about the break-in in the parking lot, and then Bebe’s mom came over and said she wished she could do something to help, and then Dad remembered he had your keys…”  
Jimmy’s dad is standing on the stepladder, unscrewing their broken hallway lamp, his teeth clamped around a screwdriver as he grunts out a greeting. He’s passing it down, piece by piece, to a vaguely familiar-looking blonde kid, who then chucks them into the open garbage sack at his feet. “Hey, Tweek,” the kid says, smiling. “Remember me?”  
“Uh,” Tweek replies, because he really doesn’t, “Hi!” He doesn’t feel too bad about it though, since it’s not like he screamed right in this kid’s face or anything like that. That’s progress, right?  
They all have to edge around Mr Valmer to get into the living room, where a little boy dressed all in black – he must be around Tricia’s age – is sitting cross-legged on the floor with all those DVD’s that got stepped on stacked in front of him, wiping them down with a cloth. “I appreciate your decision to cling to non-digital media,” the kid says, “Instead of streaming everything.” It’s like listening to a vampire that who’s trapped in the body of a little boy, but is actually _ancient._ “I find it refreshingly non-conformist.”  
“This is Firkle,” Clyde says, grinning as he reaches out to muss the boy’s hair – only for Firkle to slap his hand away. “He’s one of Henrietta’s friends. And Tweek –you remember Esther, right?”  
Kevin Stoley’s twin sister, the one who transferred to Middle Park for high school – Tweek does remember her. She’s got her shiny black hair piled on top of her head in a messy knot, and is wearing Wonder Woman t-shirt and a pink pair of tracksuit bottoms with the word ANGEL spelled out in rhinestones down one leg. “Hey,” Esther says, sticking her head around the kitchen door. She’s got thick work gloves on her hands, and she’s holding up one half of the smashed coffee pot by the handle. “You guys shouldn’t come in the kitchen until we’ve finished sweeping, okay? There's still a _lot_ of glass and stuff.”  
“Okay, thanks,” Tweek replies, amazed by how steady his own voice sounds. That’s a shame though – he was kind of hoping Mom’s favourite mug would’ve survived. That mint-green one with gold rim and the polka-dots. Doesn't sound like it, though.  
Over by the window that faces the front lawn, a lady who looks a lot like Bebe has put the curtains back on the curtain hooks, and is about to pass the whole rod up to a man – her husband? Or is that Kevin’s dad – who’s standing halfway up that ladder Dad keeps in the garden shed. An Asian lady – she must be Kevin and Esther’s mom – is vacuuming the stairs, where that picture of Dad outside Tweak Bros lay broken last night. There’s no sign of it now – no frame, no glass, nothing – and she smiles as she moves the hoover nozzle to one side, so they can walk past, only grabbing Mom to hug her and tell her something that Tweek doesn’t quite catch.  
Tweek runs up the stairs, and almost collides with Henrietta as she comes out of the bathroom lugging a bucket that reeks of bleach. He realises she’s put the Gautama Buddha statue in that bucket, upside down, just as she yells at him to be careful.  
“Could you the bucket down so I can hug you,” Tweek says, “Please?”  
Henrietta’s so surprised; she actually _smiles,_ before she pulls Tweek close and smushes his head against her corset. “I hope the Domestos doesn’t burn the paint off,” she says, pulling back from the hug just as Clyde joins them up there. Through the bathroom door, Tweek can see that another Goth kid – that guy who wears eyeliner and always walks with a cane – is sitting on the floor, one leg stretched out in front of him. He’s carefully scraping Mom’s nail polish off the tiles, with what looks like one of those tools you’d use on a ceramic hot-plate. And someone’s washed the floor in there, because it doesn’t reek of pee _or_ of perfume anymore, _at all._  
“Oh dear,” Mr Donovan is coming out of Mom and Dad’s bedroom with a Target bag in one hand. He’s smiling, though. “Your poor Buddha statue’s in here,” he says, raising the bag. It rattles. “What’s left of him. I thought, in case you’d want to try gluing him back together? Kevin and Nicole are down in the basement, washing the clothes that got stepped on, and I’ve folded all your clean clothes on the bed. I mean, I’ve got no idea what’s supposed to go where…”  
As Mom and Dad push past Mr Donovan, and Mom then lets out a delighted squeal – “Roger, are you _sure?_ ” Tweek walks towards his own bedroom, followed by Clyde and Henrietta. The floor’s been cleared and vacuumed – it’s tidier in here than it’s been in years. All his stray coffee mugs are gone, as are the empty takeout cups, the smashed-up model airplanes, and all the pages of notes and destroyed textbooks. Tweek’s old bedframe sits in the middle of the room, all empty now, with his duvet draped over the headboard. Someone’s even gone to the trouble of changing the bedding!  
“We sorted all the paper separately,” Clyde is saying, walking up behind him and pulling Tweek into a very careful headlock. “So you can go through it, or just recycle it responsibly." He starts rubbing the top of Tweek’s head, like he’s determined to at least muss _somebody’s_ hair today.  
“You guys are so awesome I might have to cry,” Tweek says, but he can’t stop grinning. 

Jimmy’s mom arrives just as they’ve got the Blacks’ spare mattress in place on Tweek’s bedframe. It’s actual _memory foam,_ but Token’s dad still keeps insisting they don’t need to get it back – _ever._ “This is the _least_ we can do,” he says, “After what you did for Craig.” He starts to say something else, but the sound of Mrs Valmer’s car horn drowns it out.  
How one car can even hold that much food… it’s like that yellow Mazda Jimmy’s mom drives has its own built-in pocket dimension. Seems she even drove all the way out here with a dish of potato salad on her lap! Everyone forms a bucket line from the Mazda to the house, passing dishes and plates covered with cling-film from one pair of hands to the next. Kyle, it seems, stuck around to help out as well, after somebody cleaned up the cuts on his face and bandaged his knuckles. He ends up standing next to Tweek, not saying much, but at least he seems to be in a better mood now. Tweek cautiously smiles up at him, and Kyle smiles back. They’re probably not friends, but they’re not exactly enemies, either, and at least that’s something.  
Aside from the three Goth kids, Mrs Valmer’s the only one who didn’t bother changing into work clothes; she’s wearing a bright yellow dress with polkadots on it, underneath her sturdy, full-length black apron. Probably, she just drove straight home from church, hurled herself into the kitchen, and started cooking. Does she own _anything_ that isn’t yellow, Tweek wonders briefly, before he recognizes his favourite dish from everything she served up yesterday. “Sweet potato enchiladas?!”  
From down by the car, Mrs Valmer shouts, “Yup! I marked all the vegetarian stuff for you!” She’s right, Tweek realizes, there’s a big, black V drawn over the clingfilm with a Sharpie.  
“Come on,” Kyle mutters, pulling the plate out of his hands and passing it to Nicole.  
Their house just isn’t big enough for everyone to eat together downstairs, So they just naturally divvy up. The parents all spread out from the kitchen and into the living room, sitting on the sofa, around the kitchen table, on every spare chair they can find – including the deck chairs, which Tweek helps Dad carry inside from the garage. And for the first time ever, Tweek gets to host what almost feels like a small party in his bedroom, where the kids all congregate.  
Mom and Mrs Valmer have quickly set up all the food in the kitchen, while Mrs Stoley’s positioned herself by the door, handing out red paper plates with some Chinese symbols printed on them that Kevin says spell out “Happy New Year”. Because, well… there aren’t that many plates left intact, either. So you can just fill up your paper plate with whatever you want, carry it upstairs, and then run back down for seconds. There are paper cups, too, and so many random types of soda that Esther and Kevin set up a drinks bar on the kitchen counter, complete with two long tubes of red cups still inside the plastic wrapper. There’s some sort of Jamaican root beer that Token’s dad apparently likes, a bottle of something bright green with Chinese writing on the label that Kevin’s mom calls “Aloe Vera Drink”, and a bottle of something that’s more of a pond-scum shade of green that turns out to be cold jasmine tea… There’s also Dr Pepper and Safeway’s own-brand lemonade, but no Coca Cola, which Tweek is secretly grateful for, because he _hates_ the smell of it. And best of all, Bebe’s mom brought over an old coffee maker that she claims they barely ever use since her husband got her a Nespresso machine. Dad’s already got a pot brewing. 

Tweek’s bedroom has never had this many people in it at once. Bebe goes in first, with an unmarked white plastic bag that she pulls out one of those heart-shaped pillows from, the kind they sell at IKEA, that have long arms. “Ta-dah,” she says, tossing it onto the bed. “ _Now_ your room’s done! And seriously, Tweek,” she turns to Clyde, who’s holding her plate in his left hand and has both their drinks cradled in his armpit, “This thing is so comfy, if you sorta tuck it around your neck and put the hands on your shoulders? It’s like the best thing ever, for when you’re reading in bed. Thanks,” she adds, giving Clyde a quick peck on the cheek. “Try it and tell me how you like it, okay?”  
“Okay,” Tweek replies, trying to stop his voice from going all mushy and thick. “Thank you, Bebe.” He can’t help but notice that there are still a couple of curly blonde strands of hair on that pillow – Bebe obviously grabbed it from her own bed, to give to him.  
As if by unspoken agreement, nobody actually _sits_ on the bed, so his fancy new mattress is safe from food and soda stains. Instead, they form a circle on the floor – like they’re about to hold a séance, or play spin-the-bottle. The last people to enter are Michael, the Goth kid who was scraping the bathroom floor, followed by Nicole dragging Kyle by his sleeve. Tweek can’t help but notice how Michael walks with a heavy limp, now that he doesn’t have his cane with him, or how he winces when he sits down between Henrietta and the tiny Goth kid, Firkle.  
“Oh, my leg,” he says casually, obviously picking up on Tweek’s stare, “I’ve got a metal rod and twelve screws in there. From getting thrown out of a window in sixth grade.”  
Tweek almost spills coffee on his own crotch in shock. “What?! Why would anyone _do_ that,” he almost screams, before he realizes that might be an awfully sore topic and clamps his mouth shut.  
Michael rolls his eyes at the ceiling. “Because I’m gay? Duh.”  
“Those who are different will always be made to suffer at the hands of the conformist horde,” Firkle chimes in, in his piping, unbroken voice.  
“The cane totally works for you, though,” Clyde says, from his spot next to Tweek. It’s such an obvious attempt at lightening the mood that Tweek can’t help but cringe. “It’s pimpin’, dude!”  
Michael only responds with a raised eyebrow and a “Hm,” but least Henrietta laughs. Since Clyde’s sitting there with Bebe tucked under his arm, Tweek’s kind of glad Henrietta can find _something_ to laugh about.  
“Uh, hey,” Kyle is saying, from over by the door, gesturing with the red plastic cup in his hand. “I should probably go now, but – ”  
“Why,” Token asks him, from where he’s sitting cross-legged on Tweek’s other side. “You helped out, didn’t you?” He doesn’t seem jealous at all, even though Nicole’s still got a firm grip on Kyle’s wrist, and Tweek knows for a _fact_ those two dated for a while last year. Maybe she was the one who cleaned up Kyle’s cuts and bruises, too? Nicole’s even holding a plate in her other hand that must be for Kyle, since Token’s got two plates _and_ two cups set out in front of him. “Well, of course,” Kyle says, puffing himself up a little, “That was the least I could do!”  
“I think you should stay.” Tweek figures he’s got some say in this, since they _are_ sitting in his bedroom. He even manages to look Kyle in the eyes for a full count of three, before he has to drop his gaze to the carpet.  
Everyone seems to hold their breath, until Kyle says, “Okay.” Kevin shifts over, and that blonde kid moves closer to Henrietta, who mutters a long, quiet string of words that ends with “Asswipe”, but still makes space for him. Kyle sits down in that empty spot, and quietly accepts the plate Nicole hands him before she walks across the middle of the circle and sinks down gracefully between Token and Tweek.  
“Let’s have a toast,” Token says, slipping his arm around Nicole and raising his cup.  
“Q’pla!” Kevin immediately says, holding his own cup high.  
“A toast that’s not in Klingon,” Esther says, reaching past Scott to snap her finger into the side of her brother’s head.  
“Ow! P’tak!”  
“ _This_ is why I lie about being an only child…”  
“To friends?”  
Everyone turns to look at Clyde, who looks like he’s being completely serious. “What,” he says, spreading his hands. “I think that’s a _great_ toast.”  
“To friends,” Bebe says, and gives her boyfriend a quick peck on the cheek before she holds up her own cup.  
“To friends,” Tweek says, at exactly the same time as Token says it – they turn to look at each other, and Token flashes him a quick grin – but Kevin and Scott are a beat behind them.  
“Jesus,” Michael drawls, “You’d think a bunch of conformist cheerleader assholes could at least say _two whole words_ in synch.” His mouth quirks sideways, in what might, with a bit of imagination, just turn out to be a smile. “On three?”  
“To friends,” they all chorus, even Kyle joins in, and Tweek’s not the only one who has to laugh when the plastic cups don’t produce more than a very quiet “click” when they’re all bumped together.  
“And may your cup always have a bloodworm in it,” Kevin yells, prompting Esther to stretch her leg around Scott’s back and kick her brother in the ribs. 

The blonde kid, whose name is Bradley, turns out to be Henrietta’s younger brother. “She looked a lot more like me before she started dyeing her hair,” he says, grinning over at Tweek.  
“Who’d want to look like _you,_ anyway,” Henrietta counters, but now that he knows; Tweek can’t _not_ see the resemblance.  
“Bradley used to be in our _class,_ you know.” Clyde gives Tweek a nudge, like he knows full well that Tweek has no memory of the guy. “Before he transferred to Middle Park in the middle of fourth grade.”  
“Yeah, I, ah…” Bradley’s smile suddenly fades. “I feel kinda bad saying this, with everything that’s happened, but… I just really didn’t get along with Craig. Not that he beat me up, or anything,” he adds, holding up his hands like he’s trying to stop people from yelling at him.  
“Craig’s always been a jealous asshole,” Token says, making Tweek jump. Hearing Token swear never stops being weird. “He got so pissed when Clyde and I were playing superheroes with Bradley and Cartman and those guys…”  
“Nah,” Clyde interrupts him, waving his hand, “He just never liked Cartman, and since Cartman was in charge…” he shrugs, spreading his hands, like he can’t think of any counterargument that might possibly convince him otherwise. Tweek’s not so sure, though – he still remembers Token’s story about going on that trip with Clyde’s family. Not to _mention_ how tetchy Craig got, that time Token took his shirt off and Tweek couldn’t _help_ but look. Still, not even Craig can be perfect, right?  
“Well _I_ transferred after sixth grade,” Esther says, obviously trying to wrench the conversation onto a less uncomfortable track. “Because I got so sick of all the twin bullshit.”  
“Stupid matching outfits,” Kevin agrees, rolling his eyes.  
“ _And_ of all the cute girls being straight. People are _way_ less shitty about who you date at Middle Park,” Esther says, and suddenly gives Tweek a very direct stare. “If you’ve ever felt like transferring, I mean.”  
“Hey now,” Scott says, reaching out to snatch _something_ from Esther’s plate, “Don’t you try to poach Tweek from us, now that we’ve just got to know him.”  
“Don’t _you_ steal my bacon roll, then!”  
“I’m _confiscating_ it. That’s what you get, for trying to poach people.”  
“Yeah,” Nicole says, slipping out from under Token’s arm so she can hug Tweek tight, “Tweek belongs to _us,_ now!”  
This is actually happening. Tweek looks around at everyone with his fork held between his teeth, so startled and happy that he even forgets to chew. There’s Scott, sandwiched between the Stoley twins, pointing his finger at Esther as she snatches something off _his_ plate. There’s Bradley, saying something to his sister that makes Henrietta roll her eyes – but in a fond sort of way. There’s Kyle with his shoulders hunched up, and Bebe, who’s resting her chin on Clyde’s arm while he talks to Kyle. There’s Michael, pulling an honest-to-god lace handkerchief out of one pocket and wiping some frosting off Firkle’s face with it, to Firkle’s obvious disgust. And Token, in his purple sweat pants, offering Nicole a sip of whatever soda he’s got in his red cup. Tweek wishes he could just look at them all in turn, and blink, and have each blink create a perfect snapshot in his memory. Nicole’s hair is tickling Tweek’s nose, but he doesn’t dare move, for fear of breaking this perfect moment. He wants to remember this feeling forever.  
That’s when Token’s phone starts to buzz. “It’s our man on the inside,” he says, and Tweek sees a picture of Jimmy on the screen with what looks like French fries stuffed up his nostrils, before Token swipes his finger over it to take the call. “Hey man, what’s happening on your end…”  
“You guys should eat up and go,” Bebe says, reaching past Clyde to tug on Tweek’s shirtsleeve. “We promise not to trash your room,” she adds, smiling impishly at him.  
“Okay,” Tweek says. It’s impossible not to smile back.  
“On my honour as the Human Kite,” Kyle says, speaking up for the first time. Tweek has no clue what he’s talking about, but Scott laughs, and reaches past Kevin to slap Kyle on the back. 

“The way I see it, there’s an obvious connection,” Token says, while he’s driving them to the hospital. “Between the seizures and the more… extravagant ghost stunts. I think, if we all sit down sometime and compare notes, a lot of those incidents will align.”  
“Ghost stunts,” Tweek says, and snickers quietly. He remembered to take a Xanax with some water from the kitchen tap, just before they left, and it’s definitely kicking in. Maybe he should be worried, about getting too hooked on these pills. But, right now? Tweek can’t find it in him to worry about much of _anything._  
“You’re right,” Clyde says, nodding thoughtfully. He’s got the passenger seat; since Jimmy isn’t here, and he’s pushed it as far back as it can go so he can _really_ stretch his legs. “Remember when he had that really bad one, on Friday?”  
Tweek sits up straight. “Whu-what?” It feels like something is slotting into place in his mind, as understanding suddenly dawns. “So _that’s_ why you guys had to bail during gym!”  
“Think about it. Craig went all Omen on us and levitated a bunch of stuff,” Token says, as he slides the car into the roundabout outside the hospital, “Including _you._ ”  
“And Jimmy was the contact person,” Tweek says, thinking out loud, “Because he had to sit the game out. So he took the call.”  
“They called because Craig’s heart almost _stopped,_ ” Clyde says, twisting in his seat so he can look at Tweek. “The seizures were so bad; they had to strap him to the bed. I thought Scott told you that was why we had to leave! I mean, I realized he _hadn’t,_ back at the store, but…”  
“He probably did, you know,” Tweek says, and gives Clyde a quick grin. “But I was pretty out of it, so…”  
All their phones buzz once, at the same time. Must be Jimmy! Tweek pulls his old Huawei out, and sure enough, he’s messaged them on the four-way group chat. When he taps the chat, though, Tweek’s screen just goes black, as his phone switches off and restarts on its own accord. “Gah!” He grunts in irritation, smacking it against his palm in case the sim card’s come loose again. “Not again! Stupid thing!”  
“I think someone needs a new phone,” Token says, and Tweek has to bite back the retort that maybe _someone_ can’t afford a new phone. Token didn’t mean anything by it – and, more importantly, Token dragged an almost brand-new Tempur mattress all the way from his dad’s car and up to Tweek’s bedroom today. Getting snapped at is the _last_ thing he deserves.  
“Jimmy’s just saying to meet him at the ground-floor reception,” Clyde says, sliding his own phone back inside his pocket. “He’s probably getting a hotdog, for old times’ sake? There’s a deli down there, and we used to _live_ off those hotdogs,” he explains, with a little shake of his head. “You know, when Craig was more, uh, critical…”  
“Right,” Tweek says. His phone’s back on again now, and he opens the group chat just for the hell of it. It’s probably a good thing he’s all buzzed up on Xanax right now, or hed start trying to imagine what Craig would have looked like, minus a piece of his skull.  
_@Jimmy: I feel bad for you if you’re having a hotdog, your mom made us all this INSANE lunch,_ he writes, and hits Send.  
“You really are living the cliché, you know,” Token shoots a sidelong glance over at Clyde, before looking back at the road again. He’s obviously decided a change of subject is in order. “Dating the girl next door and all.” It’s a good thing, Tweek decides, that he’s more familiar with Token’s sense of humor now, and spots the little smile lurking in the corner of his mouth, because he sure _sounds_ deadly serious.  
A reply ticks in from Jimmy: _@Tweek: You bastards._  
Tweek smiles, and responds with just the kiss emoji. Who knew a group chat could be this fun? He’s had one with his parents since forever, but all _they_ talk about is boring stuff like getting groceries, and planning shifts at the store.  
“I’m not,” Clyde protests, holding up one finger like he’s got the king of all arguments lined up, and has in fact been waiting for just the occasion to unleash it upon the world. “Because! Bebe doesn’t _literally_ live next door to me! She’d have to marry _Kevin!_ ”  
Token groans, like he doesn’t even want to entertain the idea, but he has to ask. “So then what – you’d be forced into an unhappy marriage with Esther?”  
“Yup,” Clyde says, nodding like Token’s just scored a point. “It’d be fine; we could just cheat on each other. Or I could wait a few years and marry Tricia. Jimmy would marry Henrietta, of course,” he adds, like that wouldn’t end in flames _at all._  
Tweek is struggling not to laugh. “Of course,” he says.  
“I feel like you’re missing some vital component in the whole “Girl Next Door” hypothesis,” Token says; as he pulls up in front of the little boom gate by the hospital garage, and rolls down the window to get a ticket.  
“Like free will,” Tweek offers up, and then giggles. “What about Craig?”  
“Craig’s free to marry _you,_ ” Clyde tells him, turning his head to grin at Tweek. “Or, uh, Henrietta’s mom, I guess?”  
“Dude, gross,” Token yells, and almost takes the side-mirror off a white Audi in shock.

Jimmy’s finished his hotdog by the time they find him, sitting on a bench seat with his back to the deli and his face towards the front entrance. He’s resting his chin on his hands, which in turn are propped up on the handle of one crutch, and he looks so deathly tired that Tweek almost runs right over to ask if he’s okay.  
“Hey,” Token says, very casually, as he takes the seat next to Jimmy’s. “Do you need to go home?”  
Jimmy shakes his head. “W-we n-need to have a s-s-s-strategy m-meeting,” he says, and looks annoyed that it took him that many tries to get the word “strategy” out. He’s probably been sitting here on his own for a while, Tweek thinks, with no-one to talk to. That’s probably why his voice has got all stuck.  
“About what,” Clyde says, dropping right down on the floor to sit tailor-fashion in front of Jimmy.  
“Craig’s m-mom thinks T-tweek is s-s-seriously n-nuts,” Jimmy says, wincing. “S-sorry, Tweek. B-but she s-said she f-f-found s-some letters in y-your b-b-bedroom…?”  
“Wait, what was Craig’s mom doing in your bedroom, Tweek?”  
Tweek groans, flopping down next to Clyde. “Ngh, shit! _Always_ the damn letters!”  
“Dude,” Clyde says, holding up two fingers. “Two things: Don’t pull your hair, and start at the beginning. Okay?”  
“Automatic writing,” Tweek says, shifting sideways so he can lean against Clyde. It’ll be easier to tell the guys all this stuff if he doesn’t have to look at them. There are a few people down here, but nobody’s close enough to overhear, if he can just keep his voice down. “We, we both thought he was dead, you know? And it bugged him, how he never got to say goodbye to you guys. So after he wrote this super long goodbye letter to his family, it was actually _my_ stupid idea that we could write one to each of you as well. Craig’s mom found them when my mom let her in there, to search for Craig’s hat. And now, I think Cartman and McCormick have them,” he finishes, and the whole thing is so _beyond_ messed-up that he can’t _not_ laugh. “Sorry. I should probably have mentioned that before.”  
The other three are completely silent for a while. Then, Tweek can feel Clyde shaking his head, his hair rubbing against Tweek’s own hair, while he lets out a long whistle. As if that had been a signal, Jimmy says, “S-so that’s w-what she m-m-meant, about the h-h-handwriting b-being a p-p-p-perfect c-copy of C-craig’s.”  
Suddenly, Token snaps his fingers. “We’ll say it was a font,” he says. “Jimmy, does she still have that letter?”  
Tweek turns around in time to see Jimmy shaking his head – like he can’t even face the effort of forcing out a “no”. When has Tweek _ever_ heard him stutter this bad, anyway?  
“Okay, well that’s perfect!” Token jumps to his feet, and starts pacing. “I’ll tell her that I made these fonts, based on all our handwritings – well, except for yours, Tweek, obviously – and that you asked me for Craig's after you came back to school. And then, and then…” Token stands stock still for a second, rubbing his hands against each other. Not like a Bond villain or anything, more like he’s trying to start his own little fire. “Then you wrote them to make us all feel better! Based on all kinds of stuff Craig told you, when you two were secretly dating! And, and you were gonna just slip them inside our lockers, only then you started having second thoughts about it…” Token suddenly frowns. “But, you _have_ to say you were secretly dating, and that not even _we_ knew about it. Or this whole thing will fall apart. Okay?”  
“Oh-kay,” Tweek says, blinking. “But Jimmy, did Craig say anything about, you know…?”  
“You t-two?” Jimmy nods. “K-k-kinda? When his m-mom asked h-how long you’d been d-d-dating, he s-s-said, “A w-while”. He k-kept things as v-vague as he c-c-c-could.” Tweek can’t help but notice the veins standing out at his temples while he talks. “And th-that’s an-another thing,” Jimmy goes on, as he pulls a hand through his bangs and looks up at the ceiling. “His s-s-speech is g-getting really w-w-weird.”  
“Like, Nugget-style weird,” Clyde asks, raising an eyebrow.  
Jimmy nods. “N-n-nugget t-times a hundred,” he replies, and Tweek feels his heart clench up in worry.  
“He’s probably just as tired and stressed-out as you are,” Token says, in his level-headed, sensible way. “Between one to ten,” he suddenly squats down on his haunches, right in front of Jimmy, “How pissed will you be if I suggest you have a lie-down in the Prius?”  
Jimmy can’t even manage a laugh, just an exhausted puff of air. “Zero?”  
Token jumps back to his feet, and he looks very relieved. “Okay, cool,” he says. “Clyde, I’ll tag along to unlock the car and whisper sweet nothings in Jimmy’s ear…”  
“S-s-screw _you,_ ” Jimmy snaps, but at least he’s laughing properly now.  
“…You take Tweek to Craig’s room, and we’ll meet back there?”  
“His d-dad t-t-took him outside, f-for a chat,” Jimmy’s laboriously getting to his feet, swaying like he’s actually dizzy from exhaustion, but Tweek doesn’t dare grab his elbow to steady him. “Y-you know the g-g-garden out b-back?”  
“Oh, right,” Clyde says, and his voice may sound all casual, but Tweek can see him tensing up, ready to scoop Jimmy up in case he falls. “I know where he means, we’ll find ‘em in no time,” he says to Tweek, but his eyes are still firmly on Jimmy, until it’s clear that he’s not going to lose his balance.  
“S-s-see you in a l-little w-while,” Jimmy says, and it’s pretty clear he’s _choosing_ not to say anything about Clyde hovering like that. There’s a fine balance, a precise science, to how much you’re allowed to help. Tweek thinks he is starting to see just where that line is drawn.  
“C’mon,” Clyde says, putting his arm around Tweek’s shoulder and steering him along. “It’s not far.” 

It’s surprisingly beautiful, even in November, in the hospital garden. They’ve set it up so there are lots of little nooks to sit in, benches framed by browning rosebushes and little evergreen firs and things. There are flower-beds; too, filled mostly with heather in various shades of purple, now that it’s getting too cold for flowers. Tweek and Clyde find Craig and his father behind a tall, ivy-covered trellis – obviously chosen to shield Craig from the wind. He’s in a wheelchair, bundled up in a too-big oilskin jacket that obviously belongs to his father, and a red tartan blanket. At least he already had his own hat. There’s no IV-stand in sight, though, but maybe Craig’s had all the medicines he’s supposed to for the day. The nurses must’ve disconnected it, Tweek guesses. Craig’s pulled his hands inside the sleeves; it seems his dad is doing most of the talking.  
“I love _you,_ ” Mr Tucker is saying, with a firm grasp on one of Craig’s bony shoulders, and Craig closes his eyes and just nods.  
“Hey,” Clyde calls out softly, obviously very keen to not be accused of eavesdropping.  
Mr Tucker jolts upright on the bench, and Craig’s face is lit up by a huge grin. “Nugget,” he says, as soon as he’s covered the hole in his neck. “Thanks for the halogen-bulbs!”  
“He means the lemon-bars, son,” Mr Tucker says, with a pained grin.  
“Oh, right!” Clyde somehow makes it sound like he’s silly for not getting it, and not like Craig just had another brainfart _at all_. “Dude, I’m sorry we couldn’t come earlier,” he goes on, bounding over to the wheelchair and squatting down in front of it. “But my dad organized this whole cleaning crew to sort out Tweek’s house. Everybody on our street came, and Token and Scott Malkinson, too. And Jimmy’s mom cooked enough for the armies of _Mordor,_ ” he adds, rolling the R’s on that last word like Tweek knows you’re supposed to – even though he’s never managed to sit through all the Tolkien movies.  
“It was like one of those movies, you know,” Tweek chimes in, sliding his butt onto the bench behind Clyde, so he can get as close to Craig as possible. “Where all the Amish get together and raise a barn in one day?”  
“Wait,” Mr Tucker says, “What happened to the Tweaks’ house?”  
“Oh, we just got burgled.” Tweek waves his arm, and does his best to make it sound like this happens at _least_ once a month. “How’s, uh, how’s _your_ day been?”  
“Long,” Craig says, grinning crookedly up at Tweek. Then he takes his finger off the hole and puts his right hand over Tweek’s left hand, lacing their fingers together. His hand trembles, but his grip is firm – and very, very cold.  
“Your hand’s freezing!” Tweek pulls Craig’s hand up to his lips, before cupping his other hand around it too, so he can blow on it. “Come on; give me your left hand too! We can talk later!”  
Craig rolls his eyes, but he does what he’s told, and it’s not like that grin of his disappears either. So he definitely isn’t pissed at being bossed around.  
“I see Bebe’s rubbing off on you,” Clyde drawls, waggling his eyebrows. Tweek only stops blowing for a second, to stick his tongue out at him.  
“We’d better get back to your room, son,” Mr Tucker says, with a little sigh, as he stands up. Craig’s dad really is crazy tall, he’s easily the same height as Clyde. “Craig’s doctor’s coming in to have a look at him,” he adds, for Tweek and Clyde’s benefit. “I can’t wait for you to finally meet Dr Gordon,” Mr Tucker goes on, leaning over Craig, “He refused to give up on you!” He makes to grab the handles of the wheelchair, only Clyde beats him to it.  
“Aw, let me do it!” Clyde’s hopeful smile is too much for Craig’s dad to resist, and Craig’s shrugging, saying, “Okay.” But, Tweek can see how hard he’s pretending that it doesn’t bother him, being too weak to walk. “I’m not sure I ever met your doctor, either,” Clyde is saying, as he pushes Craig ahead of him down the garden path, which must have been deliberately paved wide enough for wheelchairs. “We had to come after school, you know? And weekends, obviously, but then it was mostly just the nurses…”  
Tweek drops back to walk with Mr Tucker – it just naturally works out that way – who’s obviously at a loss for what to say. To his son’s boyfriend, who for all he knows is completely insane.  
“Um,” Tweek says, and decides to look at his feet while he walks. “You probably know I went to mental hospital, right?” His brand new Converse, in his favourite shade of green. With magical insoles that make it feel like he’s walking on air. “I, I mean. I would’ve come to see him sooner, if I hadn’t been, uh… locked up.”  
Tweek risks a look up at Mr Tucker, who visibly pulls himself together. “That was the day before the accident, wasn’t it,” he says, but it really isn’t a question. “Craig was hopping mad, when he came home from school.”  
“He, he _told_ you about…?” For just a second, it’s like time and space have been turned inside out, and Tweek is back there. And it’s not Craig’s dad, with his bright red, receding hair next to him, but Kenny McCormick, with his dirty-blond hair and terrifying smile. _You could just… take another step or two._  
No, no. Tweek shakes himself, like a dog shaking raindrops out of his fur. Don’t think about that stuff now.  
“…didn’t realize _why_ he was so upset,” Mr Tucker is saying, “Since technically, he’d saved the day, you know? But of course, he hadn’t told us about… About the two of you. Were you…”  
That question hangs in the air, unfinished, but Tweek knows exactly what the last half of that sentence would be. He just nods, because lying out loud to Craig’s father when he’s being so nice… he just can’t, but at least he can nod. “Nobody told me anything,” he says, raising his voice a little so Craig and Clyde might hear –they all need to get _this_ part of the story straight. “I mean, I hadn’t told anyone about… _that._ So nobody told me anything, and I went around thinking Craig was dead.”  
Tweek sneaks another look up at Mr Tucker, whose mouth is hanging open. His bright blue eyes lock onto Tweek’s, and his hand lands on Tweek’s shoulder with an almighty smack. “Damn,” Craig’s dad says, and pulls Tweek into his side, in a clumsy half-hug – made even clumsier by the fact that they’re still walking. “Well, son,” he says after a minute, “I’m glad you came.”

It seems Jimmy’s still having a lie-down in Token’s car, because the hospital room is empty when Craig gets out of the wheelchair and staggers inside, leaning heavily on Clyde’s arm. Still – yesterday, Craig needed two people to prop him up, Tweek reminds himself. Progress is still progress, no matter how tiny the steps are.  
“I’ll go get the ladies,” Mr Tucker says, before he turns around in the door and flips his own son off! Tweek almost falls over in shock, but Craig just smiles from ear to ear and raises his own middle finger in return. What in the actual hell?!  
“It’s their thing,” Clyde says, with a resigned little sigh. “Like, the whole family does it to each other? His mom says it’s better than calling each other names.”  
“Yeah,” Craig drawls, from where he’s sitting at the edge of the hospital bed, panting from just that short walk across the room.  
“Okay,” Tweek says, deciding to just put that piece of weirdness aside for the time being, because he really doesn’t have time for this. The Tuckers could be back any second. “Token had this idea; that I wrote the letters thinking they’d make everyone feel better. No, wait,” he says, holding his hand up, when Craig’s only response is a raised eyebrow. “He came up with a way to explain everything, _and_ make me look less nuts. Just, just follow Token’s lead when they get back, okay?”  
“Dude,” Clyde says, pulling his phone out, “I’m gonna text him now, but Token won’t be back here before _they_ are.”  
Tweek closes his eyes and growls quietly. He can’t afford to freak out now. It’s like Mom, after she got that call about the break-in – he gets it now, really gets it, that feeling of choking your panic down for someone else’s sake. “Then follow _my_ lead,” he grunts, his clenched hands shaking at his side with the effort not to pull his hair. “Even though I’m the worst actor _ever._ ”  
Clyde actually laughs, probably from the relief of someone else taking charge.  
“I’m serious,” Tweek says, opening his eyes again, in time to catch Craig and Clyde exchange a look that seems… almost fond. “I messed up playing a tree; that time we did the Nativity play, remember? Who even messes up playing a tree?!”  
Craig is laughing too now, his shoulders silently rising up and down, shaking his head.  
“Assholes,” Tweek mutters, but he can feel himself start to smile.  
Suddenly, there are voices, coming from the corridor. What with how thick and heavy those doors are, Craig’s family must be right outside. Tweek swallows. Here goes nothing.  
“…should be here soon,” Craig’s mom is saying, brisk and business-like. “I was on the phone with him yesterday; he’s driving all the way down from Aspen to sign the transfer forms.”  
Transfer forms?! Tweek stares at Craig in shock. What, they can’t take Craig _away_ from here – can they? But Craig’s nodding, biting his lip like he knows already. “I have to… go to a scuba suit,” he wheezes, eyes widening as he realizes he’s doing it again. “I have to… my boxes aren’t… strong enough! No?” He looks at Tweek, like he _knows_ he just screwed that sentence up, even if he can’t hear it himself. Of course, Tweek realizes, Craig must be watching everyone for their reactions! _That’s_ why he’s been sticking to one-word answers; he’s been trying to hide how bad it is.  
“No,” Clyde is saying, like he owes it to Craig to give him a straight answer, as he pulls the door open. “Sorry, Craig.”  
Craig’s grandmother walks in first, and for the first time, Tweek takes a really good look at her. At that long silver hair piled up on her head, held in place by what looks like some kind of ornate chopstick, and the unbuttoned grey vest she wears over her matching trousers, the crisp white blouse. It looks kind of severe, at first glance, but then Tweek spots the brooch on her vest – it’s obviously a cheapie from some no-brand accessory store, but it’s in the shape of an old-fashioned camera. Some instinct tells him that brooch was a long-ago present from Craig.  
“Ah,” she says, walking straight over to Tweek and putting her hands on either side of his face. “Sir Lancelot, how good of you to join us.”  
Tweek instantly blushes tomato red; his cheeks feel like they’re on _fire._ “Hi,” he whispers, forcing himself to look into her eyes, silently counting the seconds to himself. Two, three, four… They’re the same colour as Craig’s, he realizes, before he has to drop his gaze.  
That one nurse with the beard and the man-bun – Jonathan, wasn’t it? – has followed the family in, Tweek realizes, as the guy walks up to Craig. “Don’t mind me,” he’s saying, “I just need to take Craig’s blood-pressure, all right, Craig?”  
Craig doesn’t look happy about it at all, but he nods. Knowing Craig, he won’t say a word until that nurse has left the room, for fear of making an ass of himself – and all because he doesn’t like that poor nurse, who’s so nice!  
“Token and Jimmy are on their way now,” Clyde says, holding his phone up, his voice cutting through the sudden silence. “Jimmy wasn’t feeling so hot, so he had to have a lie-down.”  
“I’d noticed he was starting to droop a bit,” Craig’s mom says, as she pulls a chair over to the bed. “Janet,” she goes on, “Why don’t you come sit here with Craig.” She might as well have said “step away from the crazy kid”, because that’s clearly what she _means._  
“You think you understand, Laura?” The older woman’s tone is so sharp that Tweek flinches; for all that it’s not directed at _him._ She lets go of his face and takes his hand instead, pulling Tweek over to the bed, like a motor-boat with a dinghy attached. “You think this little knight here would ever hurt Craig?”  
“I’m, I’m not _that_ short,” Tweek protests weakly, as she lifts up Craig’s right hand from where it’s been resting in his lap, placing Tweek’s hand inside it.  
“When I was young,” Craig’s grandma says, wrapping her own strong, wrinkled hands around their joined hands, “I married a man, because that was what you _did._ And it’s not like I ever regretted having you, Thomas, but if I’d been born today?” She turns to give Craig’s mom a look that’s almost… saucy. “Well, that would have been a different story.”  
“Mom?” For all that he’s six foot infinity; Craig’s father has just been reduced to a little boy. Tweek can see it, the moment understanding dawns in Mr Tucker’s eyes. “You mean, Mrs Finney from your camera club…?” He sits down heavily, in one of the two chairs that have been set up against the wall, and Tricia runs over.  
“Daddy,” she says, tugging on his sleeve, but Mr Tucker’s eyes are a million miles away.  
“Well! I’ll just be off then,” Nurse Jonathan says brightly, no doubt eager as hell to flee for his life. “Craig’s still a little low, but he’s steadily improving, and I’ll be back with something to eat in a little while, okay? Soup sound good, Craig?” The nurse barely waits for Craig to give him a disgusted nod, before he’s out the door. Poor guy.  
“Thanks,” Craig rasps, looking straight at his grandma, before he lowers his left hand from the tube.  
“I always told you we were cut from the same cloth,” she replies, with a mischievous little wink.  
That’s when there’s a careful knock on the door – well, as careful as you can be, when you’re knocking on a door this thick – and a man in white scrubs who’s about Mr Tucker’s age walks in. He’s got round glasses, and he just looks like someone’s dad; he seems almost nervous as his eyes dart around the room, finally fixing on Craig.  
“Doctor Gordon,” Craig’s mom says, forcing a smile. “I hope you didn’t break the speed limit, coming down from Aspen this fast!”  
“No, of course…” he laughs, but like he doesn’t find that funny at all. Is this man Craig’s doctor? He seems strangely nervous as he walks up to the end of Craig’s bed. “Hello, Craig,” he says, voice trembling a little, “This is remarkable!”  
“I’d almost call it a miracle,” Craig’s grandma beams, as she lets go of their joined hands and steps aside to let the doctor examine Craig, “If I wasn’t such a staunch atheist!”  
Tweek knows he ought to move, too, but there is _something_ that makes him not want to let go of Craig’s hand. “I’m Craig’s boyfriend,” he tells Dr Gordon, and his voice only trembles a little bit.  
“Huh,” Clyde suddenly says, all quiet like he’s thinking out loud, “That guy’s all pink.”  
The room slows down, and Tweek can hear his own heartbeats thundering in his ears.  
“You mean,” Tweek hears himself say, “Like the car?”  
There is a sound, like a wounded animal roaring. It’s coming out of Mr Tucker’s mouth, as he hurls himself at the doctor, tackling him to the floor. “YOU,” Craig’s father screams, pulling fist back and swinging right at Dr Gordon’s face, knocking his spectacles off, “YOU DID THIS TO MY SON!”


	21. Everyone's heart is a little white dove

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Power of Love was and remains the best pop ballad to come out of the Eighties and get remade by I Fight Dragons, you can't change my mind, OR Craig's:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kl6Ery4Q_uE
> 
> Here's a headcannon of mine: Bebe faked that list of the cutest boys to make Clyde popular enough that she could date him - the free shoes were just an excuse to get the other girls on board. I've always thought of Bebe and Clyde as being quite, how do I put it, openly physical with each other. They've been together for much longer than Tweek and Craig have here, are more comfortable with each other - and I think they'd share a very... physical sense of humor, too, if that makes sense? And that, in her own way, this popular queen bee is just as goofy and weird as her boyfriend is - she's just much better at hiding it. 
> 
> PS: When I talk about the Valmer Effect, what I mean is being full to the point of exploding from Mrs Valmer's cooking.

Poor Token and Jimmy, they arrive at the most confusing time. After Clyde has hauled Mr Tucker off Dr Gordon, who’s sat up, his spectacles dangling from one ear, blinking as he touches his bent, swelling nose with trembling fingertips. After Craig’s grandma has yelled at Mr Tucker – “Thomas! Calm yourself!” – and Mrs Tucker has run up to stand shoulder to shoulder with Tweek in front of the bed, because she obviously also feels the need to place herself between Craig and his doctor, while Craig squeezes Tweek’s hand so hard it hurts.  
They arrive just after Dr Gordon has lowered his hand from his face and said, “Yes. You should probably call the police.”  
That’s when the door opens, and Token makes the mistake of asking, “Hey, what’d we miss?”  
Tricia throws herself, wailing, at Jimmy’s waist, to his obvious shock. “C-come on,” he says, shifting all his weight over on his left-hand crutch, so he can pet her hair. “Don’t c-cry, okay?” Everyone in here has gone completely silent, except for Tricia’s sobs and Jimmy’s cheerful, consoling voice. “I’m f-fine again n-now; T-Token just had to r-reset my stutter with a quick c-c-crowbar to the b-back of the head…”  
Nobody laughs at his joke. Nobody makes a sound, and Jimmy looks up, worried now, to exchange a glance with an equally wide-eyed Token.  
“What’s going on,” Token says, and his voice trembles just a little bit.  
It’s Craig who answers him, letting go of Tweek’s hand to point straight at Dr Gordon. “He did it,” Craig rasps. “He put me here.”  
Token’s face twists, and he brings his arm back, and suddenly it’s like Tweek can see the future. The newspaper headlines that say “Black Teen Kills Surgeon”. Because he _knows_ that if Token gets his hands on Dr Gordon now, he’s going to die. “Token, no,” he shouts, then squeezes his eyes shut as Token’s purple Converse slap against the linoleum – one step, two – then, nothing.  
There is a clang, rather than a scream, and Tweek opens his eyes to find that Jimmy has dropped his crutches on the floor to grab Token, pinning his arms down. But, it’s the most precarious situation in the world – Jimmy may have the arm strength of the Hulk himself, but his weak legs are trembling like crazy. All Token needs to do to free himself is shake Jimmy off, and he’ll be too busy doing a nosedive to stop him.  
“Token,” Jimmy says; his voice impossibly calm and even. “Please. D-don’t let me f-f-fall.”  
What he’s really saying is, _Don’t throw your future away,_ and Token understands that. You can see it all over his face, before he ducks his head and starts sobbing, deep, horrible sobs that sound like they have claws and teeth, and are ripping their way out of his chest.  
Tweek lets out a long sigh. Then he walks across the room – past Dr Gordon, who seems to have decided that staying on the floor is the safest option, for now. Past Clyde, who has let go of Mr Tucker, who in turn has pulled his tiny little mother close, practically tucking her under his arm. This is definitely a situation where you’re allowed to help, Tweek decides, as he drops down on one knee to pick Jimmy’s crutches up for him. Clyde’s followed right behind him, and pulls Token into a huge hug as soon as Jimmy’s found his feet again.  
“You don’t hurt people,” Clyde says, and it’s like he’s deliberately turning his back on Dr Gordon, “No matter what they’ve done. That’s not what you do.”  
“Thanks, T-Tweek,” Jimmy whispers, as Tricia slips under his arm again, and Tweek just responds with a shaky smile. And on the bed, Craig reaches out for the cord that’ll call a nurse, and pulls on it, hard. 

“I got a blue BMW,” Dr Gordon says, “Because I didn’t want anyone thinking I was some kind of chauffeur. That’s why I wouldn’t get a black one.” He swallows, and adjusts his glasses. “The performance is quite…” His voice trails off. He’s sitting on one of the visitors’ chairs, with Nurse Jonathan standing on one side; and that small Asian nurse who helped take Craig’s cast off, Nurse Kitty, on the other. Like they’re about to grab him, should he try to make a run for it. Tweek doesn’t think he will, though. This is a man who’s thoroughly given up. “I suppose I could have contacted the police myself, when Amy called to let me know he’d woken up. But I, I just wanted to spend one last day with my family, before I…” Dr Gordon bites his lip, and looks up – straight at Craig. “And I had to see you for myself.”  
“Four weeks,” Mrs Tucker says, and if Tweek thought she was scary when she accused him of stealing Craig’s hat, well. That was _nothing,_ compared to this. “Four weeks of lying to us, and telling us not to give up hope.” She’s talking calmly, but it’s the kind of icy calm that covers up red-hot fury.  
“Why didn’t you stop?” Everyone turns to look at Clyde, who blushes, but squares his shoulders, too. Like he’s decided he has every right to ask, since he was there. “You’re a doctor! You could have helped him –”  
“Not from a jail cell,” Dr Gordon cuts him off. The way he’s acting; it’s like he thinks Clyde’s question was _stupid._ Like he _still_ thinks he did the right thing by leaving Craig on the side of the road. “I knew as soon as an ambulance arrived on the scene, he’d be sent straight to us, and I was on call for the ER anyway. I’m the leading head-trauma expert; I’d _seen_ his landing –”  
“F-from the b-best seat in the h-house,” Jimmy mutters, raising an eyebrow. Tricia’s climbed up on Jimmy’s lap, and he’s absently resting his chin on the top of her head while he rocks her from side to side. It’s the most casual thing, like maybe Jimmy thinks of himself as Tricia’s _spare_ big brother now. She’s stopped crying, thanks to him, her wild sobs reduced to a quiet sniffle.  
“ – and I knew there would be swelling of the brain. I knew I was his best chance of avoiding a stroke. Even though it _was_ my fault,” Dr Gordon says, and his voice finally cracks. “I had a chance to make it right. I’m sorry.” He stands up, shakily, and Nurse Jonathan puts a warning hand on his shoulder – a warning not to get any closer. “I’m so sorry, Craig.”  
Craig doesn’t answer at first. His family have all closed in around the hospital bed, and nobody made a move to stop Tweek when he hopped up on the bed to sit next to Craig, leaning into his side like a cat. He doesn’t try to hold Craig’s hand – his mom’s got a firm grip on the other one, and Tweek doesn’t want to slow him down, if he wants to talk.  
“It’s okay, Craig,” Mrs Tucker tells him fiercely, “You don’t have to say anything.”  
But Craig nods, like he’s saying, _Yes, I do._ He draws a deep breath, and it’s like that sound you get, when you accidentally get a plastic bag stuck in the vacuum cleaner. “It’s all… wrong here now,” Craig says at last, and lets go of the tube so he can tap the side of his own head. “I grew up with _him,_ ” he points to Clyde, where he’s standing behind Jimmy and Token, “And I can’t even get his…” Craig closes his eyes for a second, “What he’s _called_ right! Because of _you_.” Craig’s whole body is shaking now, almost imperceptibly – you’d have to be sitting right next to him to see it. He looks Dr Gordon right in the eyes, and says, “I hate you.”  
And Dr Gordon ducks his head and replies, “I understand.”

After the police have shown up, to escort Dr Gordon out, nobody really knows _what_ to say. Craig is pale as a sheet, and Tweek’s not sure if he’d appreciate getting hugged in front of his _entire_ family. So he settles for winding his fingers through Craig’s, and rubbing the back of Craig’s hand with his thumb. Craig doesn’t seem to feel much like talking, anyway.  
Dr Gordon leaves in handcuffs, sandwiched between two uniformed officers. There’s police detective, too, a guy with curly brown hair and a shoulder holster peeking out from his leather jacket, clearly visible over his striped blue shirt. Aren’t they supposed to hide those from plain view? Tweek is absolutely not a fan of someone bringing a loaded gun into Craig’s hospital room.  
“Now, one of the nurses here’s set me up with an empty office,” the detective is saying, “So if the parents want to press charges –”  
“Yes, of course we want to press charges,” Mrs Tucker says, grabbing her purse from where she’s stashed it, on the bottom shelf of that rolling nightstand by Craig’s bed. Tweek can’t help but notice that it’s green. There’s a little cactus charm dangling from one of the short handles, and somehow, that suddenly makes her the smallest bit less scary. “Do you need both of us for that?”  
“If you don’t mind, sir, ma’am…” The detective looks pointedly at Mr Tucker, who blinks and gives himself a little shake. He’s been staring off into space for the longest time.  
“He probably did save Craig’s life,” Mr Tucker says, measuring each word out carefully. “Even though he’s the one who almost killed Craig in the first place. So there is that.”  
“Come on, Thomas,” Mrs Tucker says, with a quick little smile, as she weaves her arm through her husband’s. “We won’t be long,” she tells Craig. On her way out the door, she gives him a quick peck on the cheek that he doesn’t even try to twist away from.  
“Tricia,” Craig’s grandma says, holding her hand out until the little girl reluctantly hops down from Jimmy’s lap. “I think your brother needs some time alone with his friends now.”  
“Can we get hot chocolate,” Tricia asks; her voice still shaky and thick from crying.  
“Hot chocolate _and_ a slice of cake,” her grandmother promises, as she herds the child out of the room. She turns around at the last second, looks over her shoulder at Tweek. “Sir Lancelot?”  
“Ngh?!” Tweek jumps, startled. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Craig smile and shake his head. “Um, yes, ma’am?”  
“You look after your prince now.” With that, she lets the door slide shut behind her, leaving the boys in stunned silence.  
“It _kind_ of makes sense,” Clyde says after a minute or so. “If Tweek’s your knight, then I _guess_ you get to be his prince. Right, Craig?”  
Craig flips him off with both hands in response, while Token says, “I can’t believe this is a conversation we’re actually having.” He sounds all serious, but then he adds, “Your majesty,” and ducks as Craig’s pillow sails past his head, to land at Jimmy’s feet.  
Token sinks down into the empty seat next to him, stretching his long legs out so far, the white tips of his sneakers almost go under the bed. “Thanks for stopping me, Jimmy,” he says, very casually, aiming his words up at the ceiling. “That would’ve… ended badly.”  
“N-no p-p-problem,” Jimmy replies; bending over to retrieve the pillow and tossing it onto the foot end of Craig’s bed. He’s left his crutches on the floor, right underneath his chair where he can easily reach them. “Craig? A-are you okay?”  
“I didn’t mean,” Craig says, and Tweek can tell he’s using the time it takes to draw his breath to think about how he can phrase the next half of his sentence _without_ screwing it up. “Token, I’m sorry…”  
“Not your fault, man,” Token tells him firmly, as he sort of reassembles his long limbs and sits up straight. “I’m responsible for my own actions.”  
“It’s like meeting your own personal bogey man face to face, right,” Tweek says brightly, because the mood in here is getting way too dark. “Like, when I was a kid? Dad and I used to set up traps for the underpants gnomes in my room. To make me less scared of sleeping alone, because I was always having nightmares about them. But then, I was almost _more_ scared of catching one, than I was of them stealing my underpants, you know?”  
Someone snorts from the other end of the room, and Tweek twists around to see Clyde bending over, pressing his fist to his mouth. Two seconds of eye contact is all it takes for Clyde to totally lose his shit, and his loud, booming laughter is contagious. Jimmy joins in first, and even Token has to give up when Craig wraps his whole hand around the tracheotomy hole so he can laugh, too.  
“You’re so cute,” Craig wheezes, when he’s almost completely run out of air. He leans into Tweek, his forehead bumping against Tweek’s temple, nuzzling Tweek’s messy hair.  
“Is that w-why he g-gets his own p-p-p-playlist,” Jimmy asks, leaning back into his chair with a huge, cheeky grin spreading across his face.  
Craig instantly sits up very straight. When Tweek tilts his head to look at him, he even angles his face away, though not before Tweek can see the blush spreading across his cheeks.  
He’s saved from having to answer by Nurse Kitty, who suddenly sticks her head inside the door. “Hello,” she says brightly, “I’d just like to take Craig’s blood pressure again?”  
“Of, of course!” Tweek makes to jump off, but Craig holds him back, slipping his right arm around Tweek’s waist and pulling him closer instead. Like a little kid, clinging to a teddy bear.  
“Don’t worry,” Nurse Kitty tells Tweek, smiling like she thinks this is the sweetest thing ever, “You won’t be in the way.” She quickly works through her readings, and makes a surprised sound. “Well! It’s actually a little higher now.”  
“At least that asshole confessing was good for something,” Token says, completely deadpan. But Tweek can see it; that little upward tug of Token’s lip, that one raised eyebrow. Jimmy must’ve seen it too, because he starts laughing again straightaway, though the poor nurse looks a little shocked.  
“Um, well,” she says, and busies herself checking the bag on the stand by this bed. “You’re almost done with the antibiotics, I’ll disconnect that in a minute. And I think it’s high time you tried to eat again, don’t you?”  
Craig nods eagerly, and before he can think twice about it, he’s covered the tube and said, “Can it _not_ be… horse this time?”  
“He means soup,” Tweek quickly says, when Nurse Kitty’s face glazes over in confusion. “Don’t you, Craig? That other nurse talked about bringing him some soup.” It’s awful, to see how Craig sort of shrinks into himself, now that he realizes he’s messed up again. He nods, but he doesn’t bother answering again, even though he doesn’t seem to have any trouble at all with words like “yes” and “no”.  
“No soup,” Nurse Kitty says brightly, “Got it! And you should know, we’ve called Dr Martinez to come in and authorize your transfer to Denver for tomorrow, Craig. We don’t want you to miss a single day of rehab, all right?”  
Craig nods, and he’s doing his best to smile, but it’s obvious that he isn’t happy about it.  
“Don’t worry,” Tweek whispers; squeezing his hand, “We’ll come visit you!”  
Nurse Kitty looks right at him then, and her gaze is so direct that Tweek finds himself burying his face in the crook of Craig’s neck. “It’s amazing,” she says, and out of the corner of his eye, Tweek can see the nurse shaking her head. “This really _is_ the “Power of Love,” huh?”  
“You b-bet,” Jimmy says, and Tweek suddenly realizes they’re talking about Craig waking up. That _he’s_ the one getting the credit for that. “But if I n-n-never have to h-hear that song again, it’ll be t-too soon!”  
Tweek can feel his cheeks heating up. He waits until after the nurse has disconnected Craig’s IV and left to bring him some food, before he says, “It was Stripe, you know –”  
“Whose idea w-was it to b-bring Stripe over,” Jimmy cuts him off, as he reaches under his seat to pick his crutches up. “It’s n-not like Stripe could c-c-call an Uber and g-g-get here on h-his own!”  
Token starts to laugh helplessly. “Call an Uber…” he mutters, shaking his head.  
“Yeah, my dad’s a rodent taxi now,” Clyde chimes in, “Because he drives… a Rabbit!”  
“Shut up, Nugget,” Jimmy drawls, completely without stuttering, as he points at Clyde with the handle of one crutch.  
“Hey!” Clyde sounds all offended, which only makes it funnier. “Only Craig gets to call me that!”  
Tweek laughs too, but he can’t help but notice that suspicious look on Craig’s face – like he’s starting to wonder if it’s _him_ they’re making fun of. “Uh,” he says, grasping at the first thought that pops into his head, “What’s with that “Power of Love” stuff, anyway?”  
“Oh, _that_? That was the most-played track on Craig’s phone,” Clyde replies, as a grin starts to spread across his face. “They were playing it yesterday? Token thought Craig might respond to it, since he obviously liked it so much, so we played it to him pretty much every day. It was from a playlist called “T.T.”, by the way,” he adds slyly. “I don’t suppose you wanna tell us what “T.T.” stands for, Craig?”  
Craig flips Clyde off, and does his best to glare at him too, but Tweek can tell his heart’s not really in it. In fact, Craig suddenly looks like he wants nothing more than to pull those bed-sheets over his head.  
“Well then,” Token says, whipping his iPhone out of his back pocket, “Just because Jimmy hasn’t heard it today…yet!”  
“Aw, d-dude!”  
“Unless Craig wants to tell us whose initials “T.T.” is?” Token bats his eyes at Craig, all fake innocence, and Craig flips him off again, too, before he covers the hole and opens his mouth to speak.  
“He’s gonna tell us,” Clyde says, pretending to be all excited. “C’mon Craig, don’t be shy!”  
“My dad's,” Craig mutters, refusing to meet anybody’s eyes, not even Tweek’s.  
“Isn’t th-that s-s-sweet,” Jimmy coos, as he gets to his feet and hobbles over to the bed. “You m-made a p-p-playlist for your d-dad, and –”  
Suddenly, the song starts playing as Token makes real on this threat, all Eighties beats and Nintendo squeaks, and cheesy-but-true lyrics. When Token and Clyde both start singing along, Tweek hurries over to the door and discreetly pushes it closed. The last thing they need is for the nurses to come tell them off!  
“G-goddamn it, Token,” Jimmy groans, shaking his head even as he starts to laugh again.  
Craig’s got his arms crossed; glowering like he thinks this is the stupidest thing ever. Like it’s below his dignity to even comment on how stupid they’re being. He’s blushing something fierce, though.  
“Wait, Craig,” Tweek asks, licking his lips nervously. Almost afraid of the answer. “Was that… _my_ song? Did I, ah, “change your heart to a little white dove”?”  
“Bwah- _hah,_ ” Clyde howls, hanging off Token’s shoulder. Token’s doing his best to keep singing, but he’s laughing too hard, while Jimmy’s half collapsed over the bed, one arm over the safety rail, slapping at the covers down by Craig’s feet.  
Craig rolls his eyes at the ceiling. “You’re saying it wrong,” he rasps, but he doesn’t deny it, either.  
“N-no, no,” Jimmy shakes his head, and his face is so innocent that Tweek just _knows_ he’s got something good lined up, “Deep d-down, _everyone’s_ h-heart is a little white d-dove!”

Every little thing helps. From the tiny portion of lasagne that Craig wolfs down, to the extra lemon bars Clyde’s smuggled into the hospital in his coat pockets, all sticky from being wrapped in cling-film. The boys all share those, since Clyde brought so many, eating over their cupped hands. Looking up and grinning at each other, like they know they’re getting away with murder. It turns out Craig is starving, constantly starving; only his stomach’s shrunk over the past month. So he can’t eat too much at one time, which is why that lasagne was his second lunch. The first one was probably soup.  
“You’re b-basically a h-hobbit now,” Jimmy teases, and even though Craig flips him off, Tweek can tell how much this is helping, too. Just having his friends here, good-naturedly giving him shit.  
Even after his parents get back, even when he starts to nod from exhaustion, Craig keeps insisting that he’s fine. Each time someone suggests he should try to take a nap, Craig just shakes his head and clutches Tweek tighter. Nobody’s tried to force Tweek to get off the hospital bed, either – Clyde’s "theory" that they’re both so thin, they probably just make up one normal guy’s weight, gets him an elbow from Token. Not that Tweek minds, not one bit.  
The four of them stay as long as they can, taking it in turns to grab a quick meal in the hospital cafeteria, once the Valmer Effect starts to wear off. After all, this _is_ sort of their last chance to all be here together. They’ll have to split up for visits, when Craig’s as far away as Denver – things like Clyde and Token being on sports teams will see to that. Not to mention how Jimmy’s responsible for the school paper; and Tweek still has to help out at Tweak Bros. Maybe that _is_ for the best, though, since a literal roomful of people is still a bit much for Craig to handle.  
And maybe, if it’s just the two of them, Tweek can convince him to stop being so guarded about how he talks. Right now, it’s like Craig’s too scared of making mistakes, of being caught out, to say very much at all. Too scared of what might have gone wrong, inside his own brain; that makes him unable to tell certain words apart. There’s going to be speech therapy for him in Denver, though, the nurses have pretty much guaranteed as much.  
It’s eight in the evening, and Craig’s had the last of three very small dinners, when Mrs Tucker finally calls it a night. “Visiting hours are over now,” she says firmly, standing up and brushing her skirt down. “And you need to sleep, Craig.”  
Finally too exhausted to argue, Craig nods, and mutters, “Call me,” into Tweek’s ear.  
“Of course,” Tweek whispers back, though he’s definitely going to text first, in case Craig really does manage to fall asleep. His parents don’t seem to have brought Craig’s phone, but Tweek spotted the ancient Nokia inside the top drawer, when Clyde pulled it open to stash the rest of the lemon bars in there. Grannyphone it is, then.  
Tweek desperately wants to kiss Craig goodbye, but he can’t – not in front of _everyone._ Instead, he stays up on the bed for as long as he can, while next to him, Craig wearily submits to hug after hug.  
“I hate this,” Tweek mutters, when it’s finally his turn. He can feel Craig’s soft hair brushing his neck, as Craig bobs his head up and down – he hates it, too.  
There’s a loud buzz from Tweek’s back pocket, and it startles him so badly that he almost falls head-first over the safety rail. Craig grabs him just in time, his fingers digging into Tweek’s shirt, holding him up. Even though he’s so thin now, his grip is still strong.  
“Thanks,” Tweek begins, turning around, and giving a huge twitch when he realizes just how close Craig’s face is to his own. “Gah! Wait, don’t –”  
But it’s too late, Craig’s kissing him already, and it’s not like Tweek wants to push him _away_ or anything… So he closes his eyes, and does his best to tune out the wolf-whistles from Jimmy and Clyde. To pretend it’s just the two of them. Nobody else, in the whole wide world. 

It’s only when he’s stumbling past the reception desk, one hand still held over his lips, that Tweek remembers that text message. Turns out it was from Dad, on their family chat, asking Tweek if he’s getting a lift from Token or wants to be picked up.  
“Dude, I’ll drive you home,” Token says, reading it over his shoulder. “Don’t worry about it. Didn’t your dad screw his back up or something?”  
“Aerial yoga,” Tweek replies, nodding to hide how his face is still all flushed. “That stuff’s lethal.”  
It ends up being just the two of them in the Prius, since Jimmy’s dad has come for him and Clyde – the Tuckers might live on the same street, but they can only legally fit one more person in their Ford Station Wagon, after all.  
“Déjà vu,” Token says, as Tweek straps himself into the passenger seat. “I should probably mention that people were taking pictures of you two?”  
“What?!” The belt buckle slips right out of Tweek’s trembling hand and shoots past his chest, snapping back into the spool with a loud crack. “Gah! Who?!”  
“Uh,” Token grins sheepishly, “Everybody? Even Craig’s mom took one,” he adds, “So she probably doesn’t hate you _quite_ so much anymore?”  
“That’s, that’s just _great!_ ” Tweek’s voice is all shaky. "Jesus!"  
“There’s a bottle of water in the glove compartment,” Token tells him casually, as he pulls up by the barrier to stick his ticket into the little slot, “Oh, and a Granola bar.” Token wouldn’t even let Tweek pay _half_ the parking charge, over at the machine; even though he’s taking him all the way _home,_ instead of just dropping him off at Tweak Bros.  
“Thanks,” Tweek mutters, as he digs the tube of Xanax out of his parka pocket. He actually prefers keeping it in there now; it doesn’t dig into his side the way it did when he used to shove it sideways into his jean pocket. And it’s not like Tweek even needs the constant assurance of having it _right there_ anymore, either – when he goes to school tomorrow, he might even put the tube in his _backpack._  
“Okay, so try not to freak out,” Token is saying, “But I think we need to set aside some time, so Clyde and I can teach you to play basketball. Because after gym on Friday, I’m pretty damn sure Benson wants you for the reserves.”  
“He what?! But I’m _short,_ ” Tweek wails, while Token chuckles and reaches out to turn the radio on.

Having your friends fix up your bedroom for you – your friends who are _girls_ – is the most incredible thing. Like the way Tweek’s bed has been made _just so,_ with one corner of the duvet turned down invitingly and his tartan pyjamas folded on top of the pillow. Just like in a _hotel._ One of the girls has even put that heart cushion dead centre, arms spread out, like his bed is literally welcoming him back.  
He’s feeling plenty sweaty and gross after a whole day spent inside, so Tweek quickly strips down to his boxers and grabs his pyjamas on his way to the shower. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees something flutter to the floor. Huh? He squats to pick it up. It’s an envelope, from a very _girly_ letter-set. Dark red, covered in tiny white polka-dots, with a red and gold cartoon lipstick on one side of that little square that’s been left white so you can fill in the address. That square’s got his name written inside it, in a handwriting that’s rounded and swirly, but somehow very… decisive.  
“Bebe,” he says out loud, as he slides his finger along the top of the envelope to tear it open. The page has a border of red with white polka-dots, too, and that same lipstick superimposed over the top left and bottom right corners.  
_Dear Tweek,_ the letter begins. _I feel a little weird writing to you like this. There’s just so much I want to say to you, & I have a feeling you’d get embarrassed if I tried to tell you all this stuff in person. I would too, probably. _  
Huh. Tweek kind of doubts that. Bebe is plenty tough; and didn’t even freak out a little bit, after she let it slip how she and Clyde are sleeping together. He sits down on the edge of his bed, fanning the pages of her letter out between his hands – three whole pages! Though, to be fair, the back of each page is printed with a solid pattern of lipsticks scattered across that polka-dotted background; impossible to write on. Kind of a waste of paper, Tweek thinks, before he starts reading again.  
_Anyway,_ Bebe goes on, _the first & most important thing is, thank you. Thank you so much for everything you’ve done for Clyde. I have no idea what you said or did, but this past month has been so hard on him. Did you know that when his mom died, Clyde though it was HIS fault? He was nine, when he found her dead in their bathroom. MY mom told me this is actually a really common thing when someone commits suicide. That their family members put the blame on themselves. Because then, it feels like at least they had some control of the situation. Like they could’ve chosen to stop the person, but didn’t. But, I mean, he was NINE. & I think it was the same thing with Craig. Before he stopped talking, Clyde kept saying HE should’ve been the one riding in front._  
_I think that’s why Clyde broke up with me. He showed up at my door with a bunch of flowers – God knows where he’d got them from – & this:_  
Bebe’s glued a yellow post-it right onto the page, and Tweek’s breath catches in his throat when he reads it – there, in Clyde’s blocky handwriting, it simply says: _I don’t think you should be around me anymore. Sorry._  
_Obviously I’m not archiving that for posterity,_ Bebe’s letter goes on, and Tweek can’t suppress a little snicker. Even though it’s awful – or maybe _because_ it’s so awful. _This was only 2 days after the accident, & he’d already stopped talking & turned into a damn robot._  
_Okay, so how do I explain this? It’s always been him. Ever since we were little. My first memory – ever – is from kindergarten, when I was upset & crying for some reason, & Clyde pulled down my pants to make me laugh. This is 100% Clyde logic, btw, but hey, it worked! I pulled down his pants too, then we both had a big laugh, until the teacher ran over and yelled at us. We must’ve been two years old._  
_When we were six, Clyde came to my house to ask me out for the first time. What he actually SAID was, “Will you marry me?” He brought me a big bunch of flowers that he’d just ripped right out of the ground, roots & all, trailing dirt all the way from the sidewalk and up our front steps. I told him you’re not supposed to ask a girl that unless you give her a big diamond ring. “No problem,” Clyde told me. He pulled a marker out of his pocket & drew one on my finger. The stone was all crooked, & so big that it covered the whole back of my hand. So then I said yes. The grown-ups all thought it was adorable, they took our picture and everything, but it meant more than they realized._  
_Clyde mentioned the other night; that you believe in reincarnation? I do too, because of him. Because I feel like we maybe knew each other in a past life, & wanted to be together then, but COULDN’T for some reason. That maybe that’s why we’ve always been so drawn to each other. I mean, what six-year-old boy goes & asks a girl to marry him, right? (God, it feels weird seeing this all on paper. You’re literally the first person I’ve ever told. So please keep it to yourself, okay? Or I’ll come after you!)_  
_Over the years, we’ve kept breaking up for all kinds of reasons. Sometimes, we’ll have a fight, sometimes we’ll want to date other people, but we always end up getting back together. It’s always been us. The only time I’ve ever thought that might change, was when he gave me that damn post-it. It felt like he was, I don’t know, breaking the cycle or something. It scared me. But now that Clyde’s back to normal, & I’ve got him back, I don’t really care HOW you did it. Thank you, Tweek._  
Bebe’s signed it with her full name, which makes Tweek smile – it’s weirdly, sweetly formal. At the very bottom of the page, in much smaller writing, she’s managed to squeeze in the following:  
_PS: Please don’t be offended when I say this, but I think you used to find it really hard to talk to people? But you’re doing so much better now! I could barely even recognize you today, sitting in your room with everyone! Anyway, I was drinking tea while writing this & the quote on the teabag reminded me of you: _  
Here, Bebe’s drawn a long, wobbly arrow over to the far corner of the page, where she’s stapled a small, red square with the words “Give love, get love” printed on it in white. Huh, so Bebe likes Yogi Tea – they stock a few of those in Tweak Bros, though there are way too many flavours to stock them all, when most people just want stuff like Earl Grey if they’re having tea. Maybe he can ask Bebe which ones are good, and order some different ones. Tweek almost never drinks them when he’s in the shop, not with literally having coffee on tap, so he’s got no idea.  
_Just remember, Tweek, for every person that’s an asshole to you, there might be another person who wants to get to know you & be your friend. & I think you’re AWESOME. _  
He flops backwards on the bed, pressing the pages against his chest; then has to laugh out loud when he realizes what he must look like. Like a heroine from one of those novels they sell in places like Target and Walmart; what does Dad call them? Bodice-rippers?  
“Give love, get love,” Tweek says out loud, and decides he likes the sound of that. Actually, it’d make a pretty decent mantra. Better than reciting the names of his stupid meds, anyway!


	22. Lollipop Buddha

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The CD Token plays in the car is one I imagine he would have stolen from his dad; Solomon Burke's "Don't Give Up On Me". Here's the song he plays for Tweek:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u2OgM6CflF8&list=PL985788890C207AA8&index=4
> 
> And speaking of things you get via your dad, I decided that where Tweek's dad introduced him to Hitch Hiker's Guide, Clyde's dad introduced his son to the Heavy Metal movie, which is... sort of gleefully sexist, but SO much fun, too. I figured, since eight-year-old Clyde is seen reading a Playboy, and he's advanced to underage hostess dating by the time he's ten, this is EXACTLY the sort of movie he'd love. EDIT: I even found a clip of the Donovans' cosplay; the real fun starts around the 2 minute-mark but the build-up to it is great:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u2OgM6CflF8&list=PL985788890C207AA8&index=4

After he’s had a super quick shower in their shiny, clean bathroom, Tweek sends Craig a text. _Are you awake? <3_ He only spends five minutes deliberating whether he should do that heart thing or not – pasting an emoji could corrupt the whole message on the Grannyphone, after all. Not to mention Craig might think it’s stupid, Tweek sending him hearts and stuff like that. There’s no reply though, so Craig really must be asleep, even though it’s barely nine. But then, he did say he woke up super early to brush his teeth; and how little sleep did Craig _get_ last night, anyway? Nowhere near enough, Tweek is pretty sure of that. He slips his phone into the front pocket of his pyjama jacket, and shuffles out into the hallway. Goes downstairs on his bare feet to get a coffee, and maybe some water.  
“Tweek,” Mom yells, from her seat at the kitchen table, “Wear these! There could still be glass!” She raises first one leg and then the other to kick her shoes right at him – a pair of mint green Crocks he’s never seen before. She’s wearing her nightie already, and that pair of fluffy brown socks Tweek got her for Mother’s Day this year. The fluff is almost worn flat already.  
“I’m sure they got everything,” Tweek mutters, even as he straightens the Crocks out with his feet and steps inside them. No point arguing with Mom over something like this. He just hopes nobody at school ever finds out that his feet are still small enough to fit inside his mom’s shoes. Well. _Some_ of his mom’s shoes.  
“Roger brought those,” Mom says. “He told me they were remaindered, but I’m not quite sure I believe him. Oh, and you should see what else he brought, upstairs!”  
“And did you see the head?” Dad comes inside the kitchen, and walks right up to that coffee maker they got from Mrs Stevens, where there’s a pot brewing. He’s carrying a mug Tweek’s never seen before; a really nice one that’s got lots of flowers and vines wrapped around the letter “R”. It’s a pretty decent size, too, though Tweek is still very glad that he keeps his favourite mug at Tweak Bros. “Linda – that’s Token’s mother – she had this big golden Buddha-head on a stick in one of their guest rooms.” Dad’s topping his coffee up, and he doesn’t seem to be in nearly as much pain anymore. “She thought it’d make a nice replacement for the statues that got broken, but it’s…” he shrugs, “Well, it’s just a little bit terrifying?”  
“The eyes follow you,” Mom agrees, raising a very familiar cup to her lips. “But I’m sure we’ll get used to it!”  
“Mom’s mug,” Tweek says, oh-so-intelligently, pointing at it. Because there it is, the mint green cup with the golden rim and the white polka-dots, and the roses printed on the inside of the cup. “How did that even survive?!”  
“It was in the dishwasher,” Mom beams, wrapping both hands protectively around it. “I almost cried when I found it!”  
“We’ve got lots of new mugs, too!” Dad opens one of the cupboards wide. “Everyone brought their unwanted ones over; this one,” he raises his own mug, “Was from Jimmy’s dad! His wife got these for the whole family, but Ryan said it was a bit on the girly side for him!”  
Whoa – how many mugs are even _in_ there?! It’s probably because giving someone a mug is such a cheap, easy gift, right? That’s why people always wind up with too many of them… Some of the mugs have obviously been used and washed, and some are brand new, like one with the Vans logo. Mr Donovan probably brought it; they get freebies like that from their suppliers all the time, according to Clyde. There are two matching mugs covered in tiny, multi-coloured flowers, and three plain blue ones that are kind of an annoying neither-here-nor-there size, with big, fluted openings and tiny little bottoms – no wonder somebody didn’t want them. There’s a mug with a lid, covered in pandas frolicking on a green background, a Batman logo mug… And right at the back, there’s a nice, tall mug with some kind of star sign stuff printed on the handle – Tweek goes for that one, and lets out a happy yelp when he realizes it’s actually a Scorpio mug! It’s seriously pretty – there’s a big picture of a scorpion that kind of resembles a lobster, superimposed over a parchment star chart. Helpful Scorpio facts are listed on the back – Forceful! Emotional! – and there’s the triangle water sign symbol, that M-symbol with the little arrow at one end, a bunch of red flowers, and something yellow – onions…? Tweek keeps turning the mug around in his hands; there are so many little cute details, though he has to laugh when he reads that his ruling planet is Pluto. “Pluto’s not even a planet anymore,” he mutters to himself, remembering that old planetarium in the storage room at school.  
“I was saving that one for your birthday,” Mom is saying, “But it’s just around the corner anyway, so…” Tweek carefully puts the mug down on the kitchen counter, before hurries over to the table so he can kiss her cheek and hug her. He’s waddling like a duck in the crocks – how can people stand to wear these things?  
“I’m glad you like it.” Mom keeps him locked in that hug for a little longer than Tweek had planned, but that’s okay. “Did they feed you, over at that hospital?”  
“I bought some kind of veggie burger,” Tweek says, and he can’t help his face from twisting at the memory of that soggy, tasteless thing. “Clyde brought more lemon bars, though!”  
“I’ll make you a sandwich,” Dad tells him, putting the Scorpio mug down on the kitchen table – Tweek wrinkles his nose when he sees just how much milk Dad’s put in there. “Hey, it’s close to bedtime, on a school night! If you want it black, you’re drinking decaf.”  
“Ugh, thanks, I guess.” Tweek sits down next to Mom, and marvels at how normal this feels. He can almost forget what this room looked like last night; when the kitchen floor sparkled like snow from all the broken glass.  
Mom’s got her feet propped up on that plank that runs along the bottom of the table, and she keeps reaching over to straighten the collar of his pyjama top, tuck some hair behind his ear, before leaning back to watch him over the rim of her mug.  
“What,” Tweek says as last, a little exasperated.  
“It’s just… you’re going to be a big, bad seventeen-year-old soon,” Mom says wistfully, “And now you’ve got a boyfriend and everything. And it still feels like only yesterday, when I gave birth to you in the backseat of that nasty old car…”  
“The Greenmobile,” Dad says, putting an unfamiliar plate down in front of him – it’s a plain, pale green – that has two of Dad’s trademark ski-slope sandwiches on it. One with cheese; and the other with strawberry jam. He’s talking about the legendary Oldsmobile that was passed down from one brother to the next, then to Tweek’s grandmother, who did some serious damage to the petrol tank by filling it up with Diesel, and then back to Dad, once he and Mom returned from Nepal. “Damn, I miss that car.”  
“It stank.” Mom’s grinning, falling into the patterns of an old, comfortable argument. “And not even windscreen wipers worked!”  
“It had personality,” Dad counters, and pulls up the last chair. Tweek can’t help but notice that he’s put a lot less milk in his _own_ coffee.  
“More like a personality _disorder!_ ”  
“Thanks, Dad,” Tweek says, talking around a mouthful of bread and cheese. Should he ask them? It’s so nice and cosy now, just sitting here with his parents, and he doesn’t want to ruin it, but… “Why didn’t you guys tell me about Craig?”  
Mom only blinks at him, thrown by the sudden change of subject, while Dad’s eyebrows shoot up.  
“I, I mean, it was only yesterday I found out he was in a coma. The way people were talking about him at school; and the accident… I thought he’d died!”  
Mom claps her hand over her mouth, and her eyes widen as understanding dawns.  
“Well, come on,” Dad says gruffly, “We didn’t know anything about… how you liked him.” He takes a fortifying sip of coffee, before he goes on. “They told us to keep the topics light, you know; when we went to see you. So your classmate being in a car accident wasn’t exactly…” Dad shrugs, spreads his hands.  
“I’m so sorry,” Mom begins, but Tweek shakes his head.  
“No, it’s fine,” he cuts her off, smiling in spite of himself, “I just, I just wondered, is all.”  
“Well, speaking of that,” Dad folds his hands around his new “R” mug, “I think it’s time we set up that weekly appointment for you. With the psychiatrist,” he adds, when Tweek can only blink in confusion. “I know we agreed to give you some time to settle back in, but it’s been over a week now…”  
Tweek, who’s moved on to the jam sandwich – he was saving that one for dessert – looks up, as a fantastic idea takes root and blossoms in his mind. “Can it be on Fridays? Friday afternoons? My last lesson’s a double period of gym,” he adds; which immediately makes Dad laugh. But it’s perfect this way – if he’s out of gym, the teacher won’t see how awful Tweek _really_ is – not just at basketball, but at _all_ sports. He’ll have to give up on recruiting Tweek for the team, too!  
“That’s my boy,” Dad snickers, while Mom looks up at the ceiling and shakes her head, “One _hundred_ percent back to normal!” 

When Craig finally messages him back, it’s ten to eleven. The three of them are downstairs, watching Raiders of the Lost Ark; Tweek’s favourite. Dad, who prefers Temple of Doom, is stretched out on the recliner with a heat pack on his lower spine. Tweek’s sharing the couch with Mom, each curled up in one corner and sharing the leg space in the middle. It feels like that golden Buddha head Mrs Black brought is watching it, too, since someone (probably Dad) has put it up on the console cabinet and angled it towards the TV. Tweek can see this thing acquiring a hat sometime soon. A hat would definitely help make it less creepy. Indiana Jones has just shot that guy who wants to have a whip duel with him right between the eyes when a single text message makes Tweek’s phone buzz.  
“Gah! I, ah, need to, um! Go to bed,” Tweek yells, jumping to his feet, “I’m really tired, okay?!”  
“Okay, kiddo,” Mom yells after him, as he pelts up the stairs as fast as he can. But Tweek can still hear Dad laughing softly, and then Mom, joining in.  
Tweek’s so stressed out that he ends up running into Mom and Dad’s bedroom, instead of his own, slamming the door shut behind him and leaning against it. Immediately, he recognizes the picture that’s been hung above the dresser, where the now-broken Buddha statue used to sit. A widescreen shot of the Eiffel tower in either summer or spring, surrounded by a sprawl of Parisian houses, green trees peeking up between them, under a sky so blue, it must’ve been photoshopped. That picture was hanging above Mr Donovan’s bed just last night, when Tweek went in there to tell his parents what _really_ happened on the school roof. Maybe his wife picked it out, Tweek thinks, as he sinks down on the foot-end of the bed and tucks one knee under his chin.  
_I’m awake now,_ Craig’s message reads. _Sorry if this wakes you up._  
Tweek calls him back, chewing on the knuckle of this thumb while the dial tone rings and rings, until it finally connects. “I dropped it,” Craig growls, and he sounds so annoyed that Tweek just has to laugh at him. “Right down on the…” He interrupts himself, draws a rattling breath. “Sorry I made you wait.”  
“Don’t worry about it.” Tweek runs his hand over the quilted bedspread, which is older than _he_ is. Mom and Dad brought it back from either Lhasa or Khatmandu; it’s dyed in different shades of purple and green, with a big pink lotus flower worked into the design. “You get some sleep?”  
“Mm,” Craig replies, and he does sound more rested now. Less exhausted. “Anything nice happen?”  
“Bebe wrote me a letter! I can’t even remember the last time I got a letter!” Tweek flops back on the bed without thinking, and has to quickly bite his lip to suppress a yowl. Damn it, his back’s been fine all day – but then, he hasn’t tried to lie down all day, has he. “And Token’s mom gave us this Buddha head on a stick,” he goes on, “That my dad named the Lollipop Buddha. Like, there’s the Gautama Buddha, the Laughing Buddha, and now the Lollipop Buddha?”  
Craig chuckles quietly on the other end of the phone. Just for a second, Tweek can imagine him sitting right here, leaning against and maybe just a little bit _through_ his parents’ headboard, long legs stretched out on the bedspread. “I remember that,” Craig is saying. “Guess who… used to be scared of it?”  
“Clyde,” Tweek replies, as he rolls over on his stomach. He just _knows._  
“Uh-huh. When we were little… and we played in there? He saw it… and started crying. We had to cover it up.”  
Tweek snickers. “Seriously?”  
“Yup. So hey, why’d she… write to you, anyway?”  
There’s something odd about the way Craig is talking, but Tweek hasn’t been able to put his finger on it until now. When it hits him, he growls out loud, because Craig’s playing it safe. He’s trying to talk without using nouns or names.  
“Stop that,” Tweek snaps, and it comes out sounding way more annoyed than he wants it to. “Like, I can tell you’re trying to, to not slip up, okay? But you don’t have to pretend, when it’s just me!”  
Craig goes all quiet for a moment. “Goddamn it,” he drawls at last, but he sounds _way_ more fond than pissed, “Can’t put anything… past you, can I?”  
“Nope.” It’s a relief, how Craig doesn’t get all defensive. How he just admits it. Tweek can feel his muscles start to unclench, from his neck and all the way down his back. “We just need to, I don’t know, agree on what to do about it? I mean, would you want me to just correct you, if you use the wrong word? In a nice way,” he quickly adds.  
“Okay,” Craig says, and he sounds relieved, too. “Yeah. That’d be… great. If you’d just say… “No, that’s not right.” Something like that?”  
“Deal,” Tweek tells him firmly, smiling a little. “Anyway, Bebe was saying how much better I’ve got, at talking to people.” He can’t bring up all that stuff about her and Clyde, Tweek decides, since Bebe told him that in confidence. Not that he _really_ thinks she’d come after him; it just wouldn’t be right. Not even to tell Craig. “And she gave me this good idea for a new mantra. “Give love, get love,” how’s that sound?”  
“Sounds… confusing,” Craig tells him flatly. “What’s it for?”  
“A mantra?” It’s the last thing Tweek’s ever thought he’d have to explain to someone, so it takes him a few moments to find the right words. “It’s just, something I say to, ah, calm myself down? So I won’t freak out so much? I used to just chant, “Xanax and Anfranil” to myself all the time, you know,” he adds, laughing a little. “Those were the meds they put me on, remember? But I only take Xanax now.”  
Craig doesn’t say anything for a little while, like he’s thinking this through carefully. “So that… calmed you down? Saying the names of your meds?”  
“I guess, when you put it like that,” Tweek pulls a face, “I guess it sounds kind of pathetic, huh?”  
“No!” Craig says that one word so forcefully that it seems to hurt his throat; Tweek can hear him start to hack and cough; and then nothing.  
“Craig?” He can feel the anxiety building inside him, rising like water from his belly and all the way up through his chest, filling his throat up. “Craig, are you okay?”  
“Fine,” Craig rasps, “Just… hurts. But don’t… say that.”  
“I won’t, I promise!” Tweek is so giddy with relief; it’s a struggle to keep his voice down.  
“Because you’re not,” Craig tells him, very firmly. “Got it?”  
“Got it. Sorry.”  
“Anyway,” Craig goes on, “I can make you… a better one than _that_ … right now.”  
“Oh yeah?”  
“Yeah, wait. Okay, how about…” Craig’s voice trails off, like he’s thinking about it for real, trying to come up with something on the spot. It’s kind of sweet, Tweek decides, how seriously he seems to be taking this. Then, suddenly, Craig says, “My heart is supposed to be… as brave and fearless as the sea. Hows… that, for something to say?”  
“Wow,” Tweek breathes, pushing himself up on one elbow. “That’s like, a whole poem! How’d you even do that?!” And without swapping out a single word, too, as far as Tweek can tell!  
“It’s just… a couplet,” Craig drawls, like he didn’t just weave pure magic out of random words at all. “People used to… write them all the time?”  
“People?” Tweek can’t help but laugh. “Like, who?”  
“Like… Shakespeare,” Craig replies, like that’s supposed to settle the argument.  
“Riiight.” Tweek sits up all the way, tucking his feet under his butt. “It’s super nice and all,” he goes on, grinning, “But I still think “Give love, get love” is, I don’t know… Snappier?”  
Craig lets out a quick, raspy laugh – he can obviously tell that Tweek’s just teasing him. “So ungrateful,” he drawls, and Tweek can hear him smothering a yawn.  
“Go back to sleep, Craig,” he says, sliding his butt off the bed. “I’ll call you during lunch tomorrow, okay?”  
Craig sighs. “Fine. I guess. I miss you,” he adds wistfully, “Even more than I… miss Stripe.”  
Tweek laughs out loud. “Thanks, I guess? I miss you, too,” he adds, a little wistfully.  
“Night, babe,” Craig says, and Tweek instantly feels his face flush.  
“Night, Craig,” he squeaks, “Okay, love you, bye!”  
He hangs up, then stares at the phone screen in horror. Did he just say, “I love you”, for the first time? Like _that?!_ “Ugh, Jesus,” he growls, running his free hand through his hair.  
“Leave you hair alone, Tweek,” Mom says, from where she’s leaning against the open door.  
“GAH! Mom?!” How much did she hear?! And how much did _Dad_ hear, because Tweek’s suddenly spotted Dad’s arm around Mom’s waist, and now he’s sticking his head around the doorframe, too! They’re both smiling like this is the most adorable thing _ever,_ like they don’t _understand_ that it’s possible to _die_ from embarrassment!  
Tweek just stares at the two of them, his mouth opening and closing silently for what’s got to be at least a minute, until he decides that he literally just _can’t._ So he sprints past Mom, down the hallway and into his own room, _way_ faster than he’s ever managed to run in gym class, or even after a bus, while his parents’ laughter echoes behind him. Jesus! Tweek slams the door shut and sinks down on his bed, panting, with his head in his hands.  
But still… Craig called him “babe” on the phone just now. Tweek raises his head, and takes a second to think about all those days spent sitting behind Craig, fantasizing about Craig _maybe_ liking him. About Craig’s unmoving body in that hospital bed; with a cast on his arm and a tube in his neck, and a machine that went “beep”. Slowly, he starts to smile. 

The next morning, Tweek greets Token with a huge grin and a single-shot Caramel Latte in one of their Tweak Bros thermal mugs. Tweek dug out his own thermal mug from the bottom of his old backpack and washed all the gunk out of it before they left home this morning, figuring he might as well take a stab at saving the planet today. And when they got to the coffee shop, Dad told him he could have one of the new mugs for Token, “since he’s always ferrying you around.”  
“Thanks,” Token says, and Tweek can feel how cold his fingers are, when he takes the mug from Tweek’s hand. “I really get to keep this?”  
“I’m sure my dad thinks of it as free advertising,” Tweek tells him, bracing his own thermal mug between his knees so he can use both hands to put his seat-belt on. It’s an Indiana Jones one he ordered off Redbubble ages ago – watching Raiders last night reminded him that he owns this thing – with the blue Club Obi Wan logo printed on it. “That one’s caramel, but we’ve still got some pumpkin syrup left,” he says, and takes a big sip of his own triple-shot flat white. A whole extra shot of espresso; Token’s loss is Tweek’s gain. “If you’d rather have that tomorrow, I mean?”  
“Okay, thanks. And tell your dad I said thanks too, okay?” Token reaches across Tweek’s lap to pop the glove compartment open, and pulls out a CD – some singer Tweek’s never even heard of called Solomon Burke, pointing right at the camera with a hand that’s got a big, square ring on one finger. “You see,” he goes on, “This is how you _know_ it’s a second-hand car. Because it’s got a CD-player.”  
_So does our Datsun,_ Tweek thinks but doesn’t say – he just raises his eyebrows and grins.  
Token slips the CD inside the player and taps the “forward” button twice, before he takes them out of the Tweak Bros parking lot. As Token expertly weaves the Prius through the early morning traffic, the music starts playing, a slow, rocking beat that reminds Tweek a little of Tom Waits – which is never a bad thing.  
“I’ve shook the hand of the president, and the pope in Rome,” the song begins, Tweek can’t help but think of how nice this is. Hanging out with Token on his own is completely different to hanging out with just Clyde, or with Jimmy, up in the Newsroom. Tweek knows he was right about one thing, that night Token told him about spiking Craig’s homejob cocktail. The five of them really are all friends in different ways. “They said everything was sacred, nothing was profane…” Solomon Burke chants, in his smooth, measured voice, “And money was something that you throw off the back of trains…”  
“Hey, you know that thing Clyde and I were talking about,” he says, talking over the song and hoping Token won’t think it’s weird, “On Halloween? About my fake sister?”  
“Yeah,” Token says, all casual, and Tweek suddenly _knows_ that it’s been eating away at him, this private joke that he’s not been privy to.  
“My mom came up with it, that time we had him and his dad over for dinner. Mom’s weird, okay? She made up this whole thing, about how my sister couldn’t like, eat with us because she was on her period…”  
“What,” Token snorts, coughing as he chokes on his Caramel Latte. In the background, Tweek can just make out Solomon singing, “Always keep a diamond in your mind,” which, now that he thinks about it, is pretty much the same as having a mantra, isn’t it? Whether it’s from the label of a teabag, or it’s a couplet that Craig made up for him last night… Both those things are just as precious as diamonds, right?  
“Y-yeah!” Tweek has to stop himself from just drifting off into his own thoughts, “Mom was saying she’d pitched a little red tent in the parking lot, you know?” Tweek can’t help but laugh. “So then Clyde’s dad made up a sister for _him,_ because he’s _just_ as weird, which I’d never have guessed… Like, a twin sister named Clydette, and _I_ was supposed to marry _her!_ ”  
The chorus has come round again – “Wherever you may wander, wherever you may roam, you got to always keep a diamond in your mind,” and Tweek finds himself bobbing his head along in time.  
“Clyde’s dad’s used to be kind of nuts,” Token says, shaking his head. “I mean, in a _fun_ way? Not like the way his wife went nuts,” he adds hastily, “But this one time, before she died? I remember my parents were hosting this costume party, and they showed up dressed like characters from Heavy Metal! You know; the scientist and that secretary who wears the Loc-Nar as a necklace?”  
“I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about,” Tweek admits, chewing his bottom lip, “No, wait, doesn’t Clyde have a poster…?”  
“He sure does. Inherited it from his dad,” Token replies, grinning. “You’ve never seen it, right? It’s… a bit much, but anyway, there’s this evil green orb that somehow ends up as this woman’s pendant, right? And this scientist, who turns out to be an android, sees it and becomes obsessed with it, okay?”  
“Okay.” Tweek can just about follow that.  
“So they showed up for my parents’ party, him with a suit and a briefcase, her in a red wig, with a necklace she’d obviously made from a green marble. In the movie, the scientist basically sticks his head in her cleavage and shouts, “Delicious!” And that’s what they did. On our front doorstep. I was _nine,_ and I was the only one who got the reference.”  
“Oh Jesus,” Tweek groans, as he doubles over laughing, holding his mug over his head so it’ll at least only run down his arm if he spills any.  
“Yeah, my mom was _not_ impressed. But you know, I think back on it now, and I’m like, at least Clyde’s parents had fun together, too, right?”  
“Mm,” Tweek licks a few stray drops of coffee off his wrist. “Jimmy told me she, ah, she killed herself?”  
“She did, yeah,” Token nods. “That funeral’s basically what made me decide that if there is a god, he can suck it. Her whole family flew over, and like, fair enough. If you’re grieving _and_ you have jetlag, you’re probably not gonna be the most pleasant person in the world, right?”  
“Right,” Tweek says, more to keep Token talking than anything else. Is it even _right_ for him to be so curious about Clyde’s mom? Sure, Clyde’s his friend now, but that still doesn’t really make it any of Tweek’s business…  
“So during the service, one of her sisters got up and started saying how clearly, Betsy’s son was to blame.”  
“What?!” Tweek jerks bolt upright, splashing hot coffee all over the side of his parka, though thankfully not on the upholstery.  
“There’s a box of tissues under your seat,” Token says calmly, as he flicks on the indicator with his thumb. “What she probably meant,” he goes on, while Tweek is carefully wiping himself down so he won’t spill anything on the actual car interior, “Is that Clyde panicked and called his dad, who was at work. Then his dad called an ambulance. But that slowed the whole thing down, right? And when they did the autopsy, they found that she’d still been alive – like, just barely – when Clyde found her in the bathroom. So in _theory,_ that handful of minutes could have made a difference. But, I mean…”  
“Shit,” Tweek whispers, because what else can he say?  
“Old Zelda Samuel said she almost never prayed,” Samuel Burke is singing, “Said she lost her right arm, blown off in a Pinkerton raid…” It suddenly hits Tweek that this song is all about Token. And that maybe _this_ is what Token wanted to tell him about, when he first popped that CD in, when he first brought up Clyde’s dead mother. The more he gets to know Token, the more Tweek is starting to see that Token moves in mysterious ways, hinting, prodding. Leading you to ask your own questions while he’s waiting there; with the answers ready and practically bumping against his teeth.  
“Our parents all took the day off. Pulled the three of us out of school, so we could be there,” Token goes on. “And literally, all hell just broke loose. Mr Donovan was asking her to calm down, and you could tell he was trying to be respectful, but he was upset too, you know? So then _her_ husband started yelling at _him,_ saying _he_ failed his wife when first she started getting sick, and…” Token draws a deep breath, staring fixedly out on the road. “It turned into this huge shouting-match, while the poor priest kept trying to calm everybody down. And we were just sitting there in our little suits, smack-bang in the middle of the church, Craig and Jimmy and me.”  
“Jesus,” Tweek says, shivering even though Token’s got the heating on in here. “Who I don’t even _believe_ in!”  
That makes Token laugh, just a little bit. “Soon as the whole thing was over,” he says, as he turns down the sound a little, “Craig ran off to find Clyde, while Jimmy and I went and hid round the back of the church. Jimmy told me he couldn’t find it in himself to believe in God anymore, and I was all, “Me neither.” Then Jimmy held his hand out and said, “Maybe we should shake on that,” and it just felt really formal, and really _right,_ you know?” Token shrugs, like he’s not really expecting Tweek to get it at all. “So anyway. Atheism. That’s basically why.”  
“That’s… one _hundred_ percent relatable,” Tweek tells him. “Poor Clyde! Poor _all_ of you!”  
“Now, just for the record,” Token raises one eyebrow, as he pulls over from the main road and onto the residential street where Clyde and Jimmy are waiting for them, “I never told you any of that stuff. All right?”  
“Of course not,” Tweek yells, almost offended that Token even needs to say it. “My lips are sealed, man!”

It turns out that Clyde is in a horrible mood, while Jimmy’s in a fantastic mood, which makes for a weird start to the day. So Jimmy shouts, “Good m-m-morning!” before he grabs Token by the back of the neck and gives him a big loud kiss on the forehead. While Clyde yanks the car door open, throws his backpack down on the floor, and grunts “Hey,” as he slumps into his seat, refusing to meet Tweek’s eyes.  
He exchanges a quick look with Token in the rear-view mirror, and they have their very first instance of friend-telepathy. So Tweek quietly asks Clyde, “What’s wrong,” while Token makes a big show of wiping his forehead with his sleeve, saying “Well, _someone’s_ happy!”  
“The n-new edition d-d-drops today,” Jimmy beams, while Clyde growls, “My dad’s making me have a CAT scan.”  
“Wait,” Tweek yells, “What?!”  
In the front seats, Token and Jimmy have gone silent, frozen in mid-sentence. “Okay,” Token finally says, as he gets the car moving again. “You wanna tell us why?”  
“Because,” Clyde mutters, staring up at the ceiling. “Because I saw things as being pink that weren’t _really_ pink. Like Craig’s doctor, and his damn car. So when I let that slip, my dad freaked out, and he was all “Do you want to end up like your mother,” and saying how it could be brain damage from playing football, or maybe there’s a tumour in my brain, and…” Clyde’s voice cracks a little bit, and he fiddles with his seatbelt for a second. “I mean,” he adds, very quietly, “Dad actually cried.”  
Jimmy swears – Tweek can tell that he’s upset, because it takes him three tries.  
“I’m sure it’s nothing,” Token says, but it’s pretty obvious to all of them that he can offer no such guarantee. “Anyway, there _are_ people who see colours the rest of us don’t see; that’s not hallucinating at all. That’s just synaesthesia.”  
“Syna-what,” Tweek says, more to distract himself than because he’s even vaguely curious, as he slides his hand across the back seat and under Clyde’s hand. He knows a little what it’s like after all, to wonder what’s gone wrong inside your own brain. Clyde grips it carefully, and gives him a quick smile of thanks.  
“Synaesthesia,” Token says, just as Tweek spots the high school in the far distance, an ugly yellow speck. “When you think of the days of the week as having different colours and shit.”  
Clyde suddenly sits up very straight. “What,” he says, and he sounds honestly confused. “Doesn’t everyone?”  
“Uh, no?” Jimmy’s shifting in his seat, wrapping one arm around the headrest as he turns around. “D-d-do you think…?”  
“Me neither,” Tweek says, and Token is about to chime in too, when Tweek sees his eyes suddenly widen in the rear-view mirror.  
“What the hell,” Token mutters, flashing the indicator to pull over at the school bus stop. Tweek doesn’t get it at first, but then he sees them. Nicole and Bebe, running full tilt towards the Prius. Each of the girls is waving something over her head. Mouths opening and closing – are they shouting? As the two of them get closer, Nicole takes the lead with her longer legs, and Tweek opens up his door. He doesn’t even have the chance to unzip his seatbelt before she tumbles into his lap, and crawls past him to take the empty middle seat.  
Meanwhile, Bebe’s going for the other door, yanking it open herself and climbing right into Clyde’s lap. “You guys need to see this,” she pants, as she throws something past Nicole’s head, aiming for the dashboard. It’s a newspaper, Tweek realizes distantly. “I don’t know _how_ those assholes did it, but…”  
“But they got to the printers somehow,” Nicole carries on, as she carefully straightens the paper that she’s been carrying, rolled up like she was going to smack a dog with it. “Tweek, I’m so sorry, but…”  
Huh? Tweek blinks when he recognises the coffee shop, right there in black and white on the front page of School News. CAFÉ OWNERS LACE COFFEE WITH METH, the headline screams, and Tweek can feel his mouth slide open.  
“Richard Tweak, owner of Tweak Bros, has long boasted his coffee has a secret ingredient that makes customers come back for more,” Clyde is saying, and it takes Tweek a second before he understands that of course Clyde is reading out loud. “Turn the page for… expose on further drug abuse? What the hell…?”  
““Tweak couple’s ties to paramilitary cult”?!” Token sounds like he’s beyond outraged. “Where’d they even cook this shit up?”  
“I s-swear, this wasn’t w-w-what I s-sent off on F-F-Friday,” Jimmy says urgently, as his hand closes around Tweek’s arm, squeezing painfully hard. “You’ve g-g-got to b-believe me, Tweek!”  
But Tweek suddenly can’t make a sound. He’s reached this weird, emotionless state of calm-before-the-freakout where the whole world narrows down to one thing only, and right now, that thing is the school paper.  
HELEN TWEAK’S SORDID PAST, another headline promises; From Foster Care to Teenage Marriage! Turn to Page 2 for more!! In spite of himself, Tweek flips the page over, and realises what they must’ve done. Because there’s the _real_ front page of School News, with the headlines SOUTH PARK HIGH STUDENT STILL COMATOSE and SOUTH PARK BULLS CLAIM WELL-DESERVED VICTORY. The second one is right above one of those photos Tweek and Craig developed together in the darkroom; the one of Clyde in his football gear running for the goal with the football tucked under one arm and a rival player literally dangling from the other.  
He’s been so stupid, and so stupidly happy. With Craig, with the rest of the guys, with _all_ his newfound friends. Happy enough to forget, for almost a whole day, that Cartman and McCormick – and Stotch, too – are still out there, plotting his downfall.  
“They stapled their own cover pages _around_ the actual paper,” Nicole is saying, “But God knows how they got their hands on… Tweek?” Her voice – all their voices – fades into a distant hum, as Tweek starts to read. And the awful thing about it is, some of this really _is_ based on truth. Only the truth’s been twisted, turned in on itself, until the bullies had a version they liked. Not that bit about Dad putting drugs in the coffee, though – there’s never _been_ a secret ingredient; that’s the irony. Ever since he was little, Dad’s always told Tweek that the secret ingredient he always talks about is _love_. As the years have gone by, Tweek’s gone from swallowing this whole to rolling his eyes whenever Dad brings it up, because who even _says_ something that lame, right?!  
He tries to say that it’s love, not crystal meth, the way the fake article claims. But his throat doesn’t seem to work right, and all Tweek can hear is a buzzing sound in his ears, getting louder and louder. Words come at him from out of the fog sometimes, fragments of sentences. Like, “paper bag” and “panic attack”. Tweek can recognise them, in theory, but they’re ultimately meaningless. Spots are starting to dance before his eyes, and he realizes that actually, he can’t really breathe at all.  
“Tweek!”


	23. I’m not a garbage can

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I had to invent a colourful past for Mr and Mrs Tweak. It wound up being SO colourful that it practically deserves its OWN fanfic, but nevermind. Obviously this won't mesh with everybody's idea of who these characters are - but, in this particular setting, I hope it works for _you_. And that it makes sense, in that their past has made them who they are in _this_ fic; because your past doesn't need to define you. 
> 
> (WARNING for mentions of child abuse.)

Two glaring strips of yellow light. Blinding him, as soon as he opens his eyes. Too damn bright.  
“Ugh,” Tweek mutters, pushing his arm across his eyes.  
“He’s awake!”  
“Tweek, are you okay?”  
“Ngh,” Tweek replies, as he tries to move. His chest is all sore, like it’s been stepped on by a giant. And his hands are… stuck? He pries one eye open, then both. Looks right at Nicole; who’s sitting on the floor of the Prius with her feet on the ground outside. She’s shaking, and she’s got his left hand gripped firmly between both of hers, pressing it against the front of her dark pink windbreaker. She looks absolutely terrified. His right arm, Tweek realizes, is reaching upwards, and Jimmy, twisting around in the shotgun seat, is holding his other hand.  
“G-g-goddamn it, Tweek,” Jimmy groans, but he doesn’t sound angry at all – just worried.  
Tweek blinks, shaking his head a little. He’s stretched out all the way across the back seat. Did he really just lie down in Token’s car? With his shoes on? No, something was going on, something… awful? He tips his head backwards, and looks right into Clyde’s eyes, only Clyde’s upside-down.  
“Dude, you fainted again,” Clyde says, very calmly. “Can you sit up?”  
“I…” Tweek pulls his hand out of Nicole’s grip, and pushes himself up on one elbow, while Jimmy yanks on his other arm. Huh, he tends to forget how strong Jimmy is. “Yeah,” he says, and turns to look at Clyde. “What…”  
Now that Tweek’s upright, he realizes those two strips of light are the ceiling lights of the Prius, on because both doors on the driver’s side are wide open. Token’s standing outside, hanging off the door, shifting from one foot to the other. Too agitated to sit, or even stand still. Slapping _something_ against the side of the car.  
“The school paper,” Clyde says, as his big hand slaps against the back of Tweek’s neck. “Remember?”  
Suddenly, the headlines swim in front of his eyes. “Let me read,” Tweek snaps, as the memories come flooding back.  
Biting her lip, Nicole wordlessly picks a rolled-up paper from the floor, and Tweek practically rips it out of her hands. He can’t actually read the articles, not without freaking out again – he knows himself _that_ well. But he still needs to know roughly what those bastards have got on his family, so he focuses on just the headlines. There’s the one about meth in the coffee – that’s like, their star article, their big attempt at bankrupting the whole family. Since Tweek knows that one’s there, dead centre of the front page, he reads that headline first. Then there’s the one about Mom’s past – it’ll be interesting, he tells himself, as he tries to detach from this whole thing, to see just how deep they’ve managed to dig. On page two, the top half is devoted to Mom and Dad’s very brief time with the Golden Lotus. His parents don’t talk about that very much, since it was so long ago. But they’ve told him enough to get by, in case somebody ever asks him – the main thing to Tweek is that he _knows_ his parents didn’t have a part in _any_ of the nasty stuff the cult leader was involved it. There’s also a write-up about the paid drug experiments Dad took part in, back before Tweek was even born – _one_ of them, anyway; the one most likely to back up their meth story. Looks like they found the video, too – _how?_ – and used a freeze-frame from that as a photo. Dad looks so young in the picture, young and confused. He’s shown Tweek the video, of course, years ago, as part of his very _thorough_ explanation of why Tweek shouldn’t take recreational drugs. Still, wondering if Cartman and McCormick stole the file off Dad’s computer when they broke into the house, or found the video in an online archive somewhere, is really beside the point. The point is, now the whole _school_ knows.  
The next headline promises a full expose on Mom’s “FREE LOVE IN STEAMING ACTION”; and there’s a photo of Mom hugging Mr Donovan that Tweek realizes has been taken _through_ their kitchen window. That must’ve been the night they got burgled. Did those guys _stick around_ to take photos? How close to the house would they have had to be, even with a zoom lens, to get such a clear picture? That’s downright creepy, he decides, with a little shudder. “Promiscuous Mrs Tweak in Affair with Shoe Salesman”, the sub-caption teases.  
“Uh, you know,” Clyde says, leaning into the car, “You know my dad would never, right? I mean, my dad’s like, super lonely, and your mom is really pretty and awesome, but he’d _never_ –”  
“Of course not,” Tweek tells him, almost distractedly, never looking up from the paper. There is one last headline that’s caught his attention: TURN TO THE BACK FOR DAMNING EVIDENCE OF PSYCHOTIC TWEAK JR. Unless Dad’s got a “John Snow” out there somewhere that he actually named Richard Tweak, this’ll no doubt be where they cover Tweek’s stay at the children’s ward of Denver Psychiatric. “But Dad’s always telling customers about his stupid “secret ingredient”, and those assholes have _taken_ that, and _twisted_ it…!” He realizes he’s scrunching the pages up, and loosens his grip a little.  
“Nobody with _half_ a brain is gonna believe _that,_ ” Bebe says fiercely, from somewhere behind Clyde’s wide shoulders. Tweek appreciates the sentiment, even if he’s not quite sure he buys it. His family’s already a target for gossip all over town; he just bets they are, ever since he almost jumped off the school roof.  
“Tweek,” Nicole is saying, and out of the corner of his eye, Tweek can see her digging through that candy-striped satchel she always brings to school. “I’ve got a Snickers in here somewhere, and you’re gonna eat it, okay?”  
“Sure,” Tweek replies vaguely, “Thanks.”  
All right, here goes. Tweek sucks in a deep breath before he flips the paper over. They’ve printed the back page upside-down, so that whichever page you happen to look at first will seem like the front page. A _lot_ of planning must’ve gone into this, he thinks disjointedly. ONE MONTH ON CLOSED WARD FAILS TO CURE PSYCHOSIS, the one and only headline screams. DOES TWEEK TWEAK BELIEVE HE _IS_ CRAIG TUCKER?!  
“Oh shit,” he whispers, as his hands start to shake. Because they’ve reprinted the front _and_ back page of Craig’s goodbye letter to Clyde next to each other, underneath that headline. That’s the one that opens with; _Clyde, I’m sorry I had to leave you behind like that._ He turns the page, almost ripping it because his hands are trembling something fierce now, to find Craig’s letters to Jimmy and Token – smaller, but still very much legible. Exposing all their childhood secrets to everyone in school, in Craig Tucker’s very own handwriting – though of course, it’ll only make them think what Mom thought. That he’s so far gone, he must’ve spent _ages_ (or just the past _month?_ ) perfecting this forgery.  
“I,” he begins, opening his mouth to try and apologize. Only for Nicole, still sitting on the floor of the car, to reach up and literally _shove_ a partially peeled Snickers bar between his teeth.  
“You need sugar for the shock,” Nicole tells him firmly, and it’s not like Tweek has any choice _but_ to bite off a piece and start chewing. “Please, Tweek. Don’t let this…” she picks her copy of the paper up, and shakes it, “This evil _trash_ ruin everything for you.”  
Tweek closes his eyes for a second, and thinks about how Nicole hugged him the other day – well, more like squeezed the stuffing out of him – and said, “Tweek belongs to _us,_ now!”  
“It’s okay,” he tells her, around his mouthful of chocolate, swallowing as quickly as he can. “My life isn’t worth _this._ ”  
Nicole looks confused for a second, but then she seems to get it, and her face is lit up by a huge, relieved grin. “Eat the whole thing,” she says, pressing the rest of the Snickers, still inside its brown wrapper, into Tweek’s hand.  
Tweek nods, but pockets it as soon as she’s looked away. He’s never been a big Snickers fan.  
“You girls should probably get back to school,” he hears Token say, as he yanks on Clyde’s sleeve to make him move. Then, Token holds his hand out to Nicole, in a silent offer to pull her to her feet. “We need to have a strategy session, and I can’t legally fit six people in my car.”  
“Okay.” Nicole lets Token pull her up, and right into his arms for a quick hug. “You’ll do the right thing, babe,” she whispers into Token’s neck, and Token nods, his chin bumping against the parting in her hair.  
“Tell Mr Young I made a call to take Tweek to the hospital,” Token says, “After he fainted. Maybe add something about how Clyde needs to hold him down, so he won’t just open a door and throw himself out on the highway. All right?”  
“Hey,” Tweek says weakly, but the others aren’t listening at all.  
“I’ll say Clyde and Jimmy sat on either side of him,” Nicole is saying, “That it took both of them to calm Tweek down, while you were driving. Let’s not make it sound like he’s actually suicidal again,” she adds sternly, poking a finger into Token’s chest. “Just like, hyperventilating and having a stress reaction.”  
“Good thinking,” Token says, and gives her a super quick kiss right on the lips.  
“You can count on us.” Bebe slips her hand through Nicole’s, pulling her away from Token, and the car. “Maybe one of you should call Mackie for hall passes, since he’s in on Mondays?”  
“I’ll get right on it,” Token says, and slaps Clyde on the shoulder. “Have you got your license on you? ‘Cause I need do some admin.”

“After driving a Rabbit for so long,” Clyde is saying, as he takes them off the highway and into the parking lot behind the mall, “Driving _this_ thing is like… magic.”  
From his seat next to Tweek, Token shushes him, holding up one finger so Clyde can see it in the rear-view mirror. “Yes,” he says, “I’ll hold.” It’s pretty incredible, actually, watching Token at work. He’s already got the four of them a free pass from Mr Mackie for missing History. _And_ he’s talked to the principal, telling the man how concerned he is about bullying and homophobia in their class, and how he feels it’s his duty as class rep – and as Tweek’s friend – to take action.  
Now Token’s on the phone with his dad’s receptionist, at the law office where Mr Black works. “Dad,” Token exclaims; his face lighting up as his call finally goes through, “Those idiots launched a smear campaign at the Tweak family through the school paper! Yeah, I’ve got a copy right here,” he goes on, opening the door and stepping outside as soon as Clyde’s parked them between an ancient Vanagon and a sleek little Tesla, “Want me to drop it off with you? No, I already got us passes from Mackey…”  
Jimmy wordlessly swings his own door open, and hauls himself out of the car. He’s been eerily silent on the whole drive here – not that Tweek himself has been feeling particularly chatty. The smell of newsprint never fails to make him carsick. He had to put the school paper down on the floor between Token and him, and Token had immediately snatched it up. Now Token leads the way into the IHOP with his backpack dangling from one shoulder, paper tucked under his arm, phone tucked under his ear. Walking so fast, Tweek has to run to keep up with him. Clyde stays back so he can keep pace with Jimmy on the very obvious pretext that he’s got to lock the car. But for once, Jimmy seems too preoccupied to care, or even notice. Tweek can’t help but feel a twinge of worry for him – that school paper is Jimmy’s _baby,_ after all. He must be driving himself nuts, trying to figure out how those two did it.  
“Table for four, please,” Token is saying, still with his iPhone pressed against his face. Tweek realizes with a start that he’s talking to the same waitress who served them here on Saturday. What are the odds, right?  
“Sure, honey,” the waitress drawls, grabbing four menus and leading them to a booth at the very back. “Nice to see you gentlemen here so soon!” She’s got to be wondering – they’re all here during school hours, even carrying their school bags so nobody’ll break into the Prius to try and steal them. But, she doesn’t say anything about it. By the time they’ve all sat down, and Jimmy’s slid in next to Tweek, propping his crutches against the side of the table, Token’s finished his call.  
“I’ll tell you straightaway what we’re getting,” he says, waving the menus away. “One black coffee, one latte, one cappuccino, and a green tea – oh, and blueberry pancakes for him,” he adds, jerking his head at Tweek. “Don’t argue,” he adds, wagging his finger, “You need to eat. Clyde can always help you finish ‘em off.”  
“I’m not a garbage can,” Clyde mutters, as the waitress walks off – but he doesn’t sound too annoyed. More like he’s arguing out of habit.  
“Right,” Token says, putting his iPhone down by his napkin, before he leans his elbows on the table-top, “Mackie’s signed passes for us all – Clyde, Jimmy, you two are good for first period only; you’ll want to be back after that.” He’s pushing all his fingertips together to form a little pyramid with his hands, the way Professor Xavier would do in pretty much any given X-Men comic where he isn’t, like, in outer space, or _dead._ “Tweek and I have been signed off for the whole day, since I’m supposed to take him to hospital. Now, my dad says we’ve got a pretty clear-cut case for libel and harassment; not that he imagines we’d get very much out of the McCormick family if your parents decide to sue, Tweek.” Token abruptly stops talking, and leans across the table until he’s almost nose-to-nose with Tweek; uncomfortably close. “Tweek,” he says, “You _are_ okay, right?”  
“Uh, yeah,” Tweek yelps, instinctively jerking his head back. “Sorry!”  
“W-we should m-make a list,” Jimmy’s saying, not smiling at all, as he opens his satchel and pulls a notepad out. “Of each p-p-piece of shit w-we need to sh-shovel.”  
“How about you make one list for each of us, then,” Clyde says, handing the car keys over to Token. “To keep track of who needs to do what?”  
“Good thinking,” Token says, passing a ruler across the table, as Jimmy writes each of their names at the top of one page. “Jimmy, I’m guessing you want to talk to the printers,” he goes on, as Jimmy uses that ruler to carefully divide the page into four columns, “And find out how they allowed this to happen?”  
Jimmy nods, writing _Call printers_ down under his own name.  
“And Clyde – ” Token begins, but Tweek suddenly can’t take it anymore.  
“It’s true,” he says, a little too loudly. “I mean, not all of it! Mom would never have an affair, okay? Like, enough guys have tried that crap! But, but some of the other stuff…” he throws up his hands when he runs out of words; and growls as quietly as he can manage.  
“Your parents were _actually_ involved with a paramilitary cult?” Token blinks at him, as though Tweek’s suddenly stopped speaking English and started barking like a dog instead.  
“It, it wasn’t _like_ that,” Tweek mutters, pulling a napkin out of the metal holder. “I mean, this all happened before I was even born, but…” While he talks, he straightens the napkin out, tries smoothing out the creases against the table-top. “They basically joined Golden Lotus together, right after graduating high school. And they thought it was all about living harmoniously in a commune, growing your own food, and meditation? But then,” Tweek looks up, and then back down at that napkin when he sees how the other three are staring at him, “The guru started coming on to my mom, and sort of hinting that she should sleep with him because it’d be good for her _spiritual development._ ” He suddenly notices how hard his hands are clenched, and makes a conscious effort to unclench them. Even just talking about it makes him _so_ mad for Mom. “Then they started noticing all these other things that didn’t add up, like these greenhouses that only _some_ of the worshippers were allowed to go near, and the guns.” Tweek gives a little shudder. “Dad told me, once you’d seen one, you started noticing them all over the place.”  
“So w-what happened,” Jimmy asks, and it somehow makes Tweek feel a _little_ bit better to see that he’s gone into full journalist mode. That he’s flipped his notebook over, and taken down bullet points of what Tweek’s already said; his pen now hovering expectantly above the page.  
“They slipped out of the compound one night,” Tweek says. “Left all their stuff behind, so nobody’d notice, and hitch-hiked to the nearest town that had a police station. Dad didn’t even have a car anymore,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Since you were supposed to give up all your worldly possessions when you joined. So he’d given it to one of my uncles.”  
“So your p-parents actually _reported_ G-golden Lotus to the p-p-police?” For the first time since this trainwreck landed in their laps, Jimmy’s starting to act like his old self. “Golden Lotus s-sold weed w-way before _medical_ m-m-marijuana w-was even legalized,” Jimmy goes on, “And spent the m-money on g-guns and _hand-grenades_ , before they got c-caught on an an-anonymous tip! And you’re saying _that_ was your p-p-parents?! I c-could run a s-s-story on _this!_ ”  
“What, in next week’s paper,” Clyde says, raising an eyebrow. “That’s way too slow! I know you and Craig are all into your “traditional media”,” he goes on, doing that air quotes thing with his fingers, “But like I keep _saying,_ if the School News had a website –”  
Token snaps his fingers. “That’s _it!_ If we set up a website, we can use that to refute everything! Give people a chance to read the _real_ story!”  
Tweek finds himself staring at Token, as his mouth slowly slips open.  
“And th-that’s why you’re c-class rep,” Jimmy says, in his best version of Craig’s drawl.  
Clyde suddenly starts giggling uncontrollably, while Token elbows him and does his best to shush him. But this feeling in Tweek’s chest; like there was somebody _sitting_ on his lungs and they’ve just stood up. This feeling tells him they might just be onto something.  
That’s when their drinks arrive, along with Tweek’s portion of pancakes. The latte is for Token, of course, and the cappuccino for Jimmy, because it turns out Clyde’s one of those people who flat-out refuse to even _try_ drinking coffee.  
“Coffee stinks.” Clyde shrugs as he tips just a little bit of water from his glass into his mug of green tea. “And anyway, green tea’s good for you!”  
“What do you _mean_ it stinks,” Tweek yelps, beyond horrified. The smell of coffee being roasted is literally the best, most reassuring smell in the _world!_  
“Eat,” Token says, pointedly sliding the plate of pancakes across the table at Tweek, who’s not eating anything until he’s had some of that reasonably okay IHOP coffee.  
“We should get Craig to do it,” Clyde is saying, very firmly. “What? Craig knows how to code, and he’s going stir-crazy in that hospital. It’ll be good for him to do something to help _us,_ instead of _getting_ help all the time!”  
“I g-get that,” Jimmy says – which, yeah, of course he does – “But w-what about the whole Nugget thing?”  
“One of us can type the articles up for him!” Clyde’s getting worked up now, smacking his fist into his palm. “All he’d have to do is copy-paste the text – and anyway, it’s not like anybody would know we’re even doing a site until it goes live!”  
“I _m-mean_ it could affect the c-coding,” Jimmy snaps, starting to get annoyed, “If he m-mixes stuff up!”  
“Time _is_ of the essence here.” Token picks up his phone to check the clock. “We’ve got less than an hour before you and Clyde need to be back at school.”  
“We’re in the computer lab for third period,” Clyde says, as a grin slowly spreads across his face. “If we handwrite the drafts in Spanish when no-one’s looking, we can type them all up in the computer lab…”  
“W-when no-ones looking,” Jimmy fills in, nodding. “Okay Tweek, I’m g-going to need some facts f-from you. Like, what _is_ the s-secret ingredient in Tweak C-c-coffee?”  
Tweek groans, and rubs his hands across his eyes. “Love,” he mutters, feeling the blush spread through his cheeks.  
“Seriously,” Token says flatly. “Love?”  
“Dude, I’ve spent some time with Tweek’s dad,” Clyde chimes in. “That’s one hundred percent on brand for him.”  
Tweek sneaks a glance over at Jimmy’s notebook, where he’s writing _Secret ingredient = LOVE,_ and quickly looks back down at his plate of pancakes. It’s not like he’s even hungry, but he might as well have another mouthful.  
“Okay,” Token’s saying, “So let’s move on to the LSD story. There’s no truth to _that_ one – right, Tweek?” He takes a sip of his latte, obviously waiting for Tweek to reply.  
“Uh,” Tweek mutters, picking up his own mug, “That was a paid experiment he did.”  
He’s lucky, he supposes, that Token manages to aim the spray of coffee down at the table-top.  
“It was right after they moved back to the States,” Tweek says, pulling more napkins out of the dispenser. “Um, they were really, _really_ broke at the time, okay? _And_ Mom was pregnant with me.” The guys are all staring at him, he can tell, so he busies himself wiping up Token’s spill. That’s better than accidentally meeting someone’s eyes right now.  
“And where did they live before that,” Token asks, though he sounds like he really doesn’t want to know.  
“Khatmandu,” Tweek mutters. “They, ah, they ran a small coffee shop there, for the tourists and climbers and stuff.”  
“Khatmandu? As in, Nepal?” Clyde sounds confused, to put it mildly.  
“Is there a Khatmandu in K-Kentucky,” Jimmy says, so sarcastic that Tweek flinches, “Or _Idaho?_ ”  
“Uh, as in Nepal, yeah,” Tweek replies, pushing all the wet napkins to one side of the table, “And before that, they lived in Lhasa. In Tibet,” he adds, to pre-empt any comments about a “Lhasa, Indiana”. “They, ah, they wanted to, um, explore the _roots_ of Buddhism after the whole Golden Lotus thing,” he goes on, “So they worked for my granddad and saved up for one-way tickets to Beijing, and then …” his voice trails off, as he realizes this is irrelevant to Token’s original question. “Anyway, Mom got pregnant after two years of that, so they decided to come back. And Dad needed to make money _somehow,_ so he called this ad for medical experiments. They tested flu vaccine on him as well, you know,” he adds, a little defensively. “ _And_ some kinda headache pill. But for the LSD thing, they needed to film him while he, ah, described what he was experiencing.”  
“And mankind will ascend,” Token says, reading out loud off the page, “Becoming lotus-hearted beings in the trans-continuum?”  
“I’ve watched the whole thing,” Tweek mutters, recognizing the words. “Dad showed it to me, years ago.”  
“Oh- _kay,_ ” Clyde says, and he sounds eager to shelve _that_ topic, “Anyway. We can definitely prove Tweek’s mom’s not having an affair with my –”  
“But, w-wait,” Jimmy interrupts him, “Are you s-saying your dad’s g-got the _clip?_ ” Jimmy sounds eager, almost… hungry. “If we p-p-put the whole thing on the site, that’ll at least give p-people the whole c-context, right?”  
“Are you INSANE?!” Tweek stands up, the dripping napkins slipping from his fingers and slapping wetly against the table-top.  
“You’d have to ask your dad for permission.” Token is standing up too, towering over him. “Not to mention I’ll need to ask _my_ dad for legal advice. But Tweek,” he puts both hands on Tweek’s shoulders; waits until Tweek can’t _help_ but look him in the eyes, “It’s honestly not a bad idea. Better that, than leave them to spread half-assed rumours about acid and meth.”  
“You think Cartman was hinting about that,” Clyde suddenly says. “I mean, that day in the cafeteria, when he asked you if your _mom_ ever took acid? I mean,” he looks down, “Maybe we’re being stupid, thinking they whipped this up over the weekend. In _theory,_ they’ve had a whole _month._ ”  
Stan Marsh’s words suddenly echo in Tweek’s ears. _Eric and Kenny are planning some enormous piece of shit._ “I think Clyde could be right,” he mutters, as he sinks back down into his seat.  
“And you know what else w-we could p-put on the w-w-website?” Jimmy looks at everyone in turn, wagging his eyebrows expectantly. “Come _on,_ ” he exclaims, when nobody replies. “Remember what Craig said, the d-day before the accident? W-when Tweek almost jumped off the r-roof?”  
“He said he head Kenny McCormick _telling_ Tweek to do it,” Token says, as he slowly starts to nod his head. “Tweek, is that what really happened?”  
Biting his lip, Tweek nods. And then he pushes his plate of pancakes away, because he suddenly feels like he might throw up. He’s had half, anyway – that’ll have to do.  
“Shhhhiiittt,” Clyde hisses, drawing that word out, as he leans back from the table. “That’s, that’s _murder,_ you guys!”  
“ _Attempted_ m-murder,” Jimmy corrects him, before his arm suddenly wraps around Tweek’s shoulder. “Thank _God_ you didn’t d-do it,” he says, and Tweek is so surprised by the unexpected hug that he almost starts to cry.  
“I, I thought you were an atheist, Jimmy,” he jokes weakly, as he extracts himself, blinking as fast as he can.  
“Tweek,” Token says, “You want to go see Craig? We can take his statement, hell; I can even try to interview the two of you together, if you want. I’ve got my laptop in here,” he pats his purple backpack absently, “So Craig can borrow that, to download the software he needs and work on the site. And I can use the webcam to record the interview.”  
Tweek thinks about it, and then he nods. “I wanna see Craig,” he says, because there is nothing he wants more in the world right now.  
“Right,” Clyde says, picking Tweek’s plate up. “Gimme your knife and fork, Tweek, I’m sure you don’t have cooties. I’ll go get the car keys from Dad,” he goes on, talking with his mouth full, “And then,” he swallows, “We’ll stop off at home, see what we’ve got with Craig’s handwriting on it. Pizza recipe, shopping list, anything. I’ll make that Craig font, and then we’ll put _that_ up as a download on the site. And say, “Write your own goodbye letter from Craig,” or something like that. _That’ll_ shut them up!”  
“You’re actually a genius,” Tweek tells him, while Clyde hoovers up the rest of the blueberry pancakes. “You know that, right?”  
Clyde just grins and shrugs, but Tweek can tell he’s pleased.  
“There’s just one more thing,” Token says, as Clyde stands up and tosses his paper napkin down on the now-empty plate. “That stuff they wrote about your mom’s background?”  
Tweek doesn’t answer at once. He remembers that one time, when he was two or three years old, when he’d asked Mom where his other grandparents were. That weird, shrill way Mom had laughed, when she’d hugged him tight and said she’d never let his other grandparents go _near_ him. “I didn’t read that bit,” he says at last, staring fixedly at the little yellow monogram on Token’s sweater, right above his heart; _TB._ “But I mean; it’s true that my mom grew up in foster care. Her dad hit her, and he used to fill the sink up and hold Mom’s head under water. And her mom would burn her arms with cigarettes,” he goes on, and he can hear how flat his own voice is going. “That’s why she always wears long sleeves out in public, you know?”  
“But,” Clyde sounds like a little kid, all of a sudden, even though his voice is so deep. “But, how could _anybody_ want to hurt your mom? I _love_ your mom,” he says, as his voice cracks and he starts to sniffle.  
In spite of himself, Tweek reaches out – and up – to muss Clyde’s hair. “I have no idea,” he says. In a weird way, it makes him feel a little better, how upset Clyde is.  
“Clyde, c-come _on_.” Jimmy sounds more worried than annoyed though, as he passes some napkins across the table.  
“She got moved around a lot,” Tweek says, and stops talking while Clyde loudly blows his nose. “And they put her with this couple and two _other_ foster kids for high school. In my dad’s hometown. So then they met at this vegetarian club thing, and fell in love and stuff, only then…” He swallows.  
“Then what,” Token asks gently.  
“Then the guy, the new foster dad? He got, ah, interested in her. You know, in a… creepy way.”  
“Jesus,” Clyde says, before he chugs what’s left of his tea as if it were alcohol. “Seriously, I wanna travel back in time and kill _all_ those bastards.” Then he wipes his eyes on the sleeve of his football jacket; which ruins the effect a little.  
“It worked out okay though,” Tweek assures him, with the brightest smile he can muster. “Dad figured out that, since the legal age is eighteen in Colorado, she’d be free to move out of there if she married him. His parents were _so_ pissed, but…” he shrugs, and looks over at Jimmy, who’s covered the entire page with notes by now. “Does that,” Tweek coughs, and does the best to clear the lump in his throat, because the hell if he wants to faint _and_ cry in front of everyone on the same day. “Does that answer everything?”  
Jimmy nods. “W-we’re gonna _nail_ this,” he says, stabbing at the page with the back of his pen. “Clyde, go g-get the keys, okay?"  
"Roger that," Clyde says, before he hurries down the aisle and past the cash desk, yelling, "My friends are paying!" at the poor cashier.  
"I’m gonna c-call the printers now,” Jimmy goes on, pulling his phone out of his coat pocket. “Oh, and I’m p-paying for this,” he tells Token firmly, swinging his legs over the side of the booth so Tweek can squeeze past him, “Since no m-matter what, _I’m_ responsible for the p-paper. _And_ for Tweek fainting.”  
“That’s not true,” Tweek begins, but stops talking when Token shakes his head.  
“I can respect that,” Token says, clapping his hand briefly around Jimmy’s shoulder. “Thanks. Let’s go, Tweek. We’ve got a plan to execute.”


	24. You don't get to talk anymore

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That time Kenny died for real (for a while) in the show, they implied he had muscular dystrophy... but, since I think that really would have been fatal, and would have left our little story without a villain, I'm sort of carefully implying that what Kenny had was leukemia. Which would still have been awful, obviously. 
> 
> EDIT: That sign in Mr Donovan's shop window was inspired by this guy: https://snl.no/Nils_Selmer_Hauff  
> When WWII ended, all over Norway (which had been under German occupation) people ran out on the streets and just went nuts with happiness; and a bookseller famously put a hand-written sign in his window that said pretty much the same thing as Mr Donovan's sign. When I read about it, I just thought it was the cutest thing in the world, and that I had to include it in a story somewhere, so yeah. That's what Clyde's dad did, before he went to get Stripe. 
> 
> Anyway, here's just a short chapter for tonight - but hopefully it will answer some of your questions!

Token and Tweek drive out of the IHOP’s parking lot without talking, but that’s okay. It’s not an awkward silence or anything, more like a break from talking. After a while, Tweek feels restless enough to start messing about with the radio, and soon they’re listening to some random jazz piano thing. It’s a dreamy, meandering little melody with nothing but that kind of soft drumming that sounds all _swish-swish_ for accompaniment. It’s kind of nice, Tweek thinks, how _this_ has become a thing the two of them _do_ now. Listening to jazz in Token’s car. He suddenly remembers that night, when Token drove him to Tweak Bros from the Valmers’ house. How he’d said something about all of them being friends in different ways – that applies to him and Token too, now.  
Tweek pulls his phone out from that little front pocket on his new backpack, and opens up his Instagram. Henrietta’s posted a new picture, of a hand-written sign made from what looks like the flattened lid of a shoebox, fastened to a glass window with packing tape. It reads, _“CLOSED BECAUSE OF JOY!!”_ She’s captioned it, “Here’s the sign my boss made when @Clyde_donovan0419 called to say @craigtuckerphotos just opened his eyes.”  
Wow, it’s like the Universe sent him a little reminder, just when he needed one the most. Because this, Tweek thinks, as he taps the little heart under the picture, _this_ is what’s important. Cartman and McCormick’s shitty newspaper is _nothing_ compared to Craig waking up.  
He quickly moves on to his inbox, before he can get sucked in any deeper, and get distracted from his _real_ purpose – know thyself, and all that. Know thyself, and thine ADHD. He opens Bebe’s latest DM, the one that just says _So, did you find my letter or what?_ Followed by that emoji that gives you a wink and a kiss at the same time, so she’s probably not _that_ annoyed that he hasn’t even thanked her for it. Tweek totally meant to do that this morning, but well…  
_Hey Bebe,_ he types, as fast as he can without hitting the wrong keys. _Thank you so much for the letter! Do you want me to write one back? I only have stupid Tweak Bros stationery at home though lol. Sorry about being such a spaz this morning, hope I didn’t scare you guys._ Tweek bites his lip, considering that last sentence. He remembers Nicole, trembling while she held his hand, and quickly amends it to, _hope I didn’t scare you guys too much. I’m fine now. Token + I are going to talk to Craig, but Clyde + Jimmy should be back w you guys soon._ He takes a minute to swipe up and down the different emoji sub-menus, before finally settling on just the coffee cup, to sign off with. That’ll be, what was it Clyde said earlier? That’ll be “on brand” for him.  
“Hey listen,” Token suddenly says. “That really sucks, what happened to your mom.”  
Tweek looks up from his phone, but Token appears to be concentrating fully and totally on the road. But Tweek knows him better than that, by now. “She’s mostly okay about it,” he says, because Token’s the one person he _can_ tell this sort of thing to. “I mean, Mom still has nightmares and stuff sometimes, but it was worse when I was little. Because then she’d dream about them coming after _me_. Which doesn’t make any sense at all,” he adds, shrugging, “But…”  
“But stuff like that isn’t _about_ sense.” Token nods like he totally gets it. “I noticed how your mom herds you around; she’s a typical Collie.”  
In spite of how ridiculous it is, Tweek can’t help but be fascinated. “What, like a Border Collie,” he asks, before he hits “Send” on his message for Bebe.  
“No,” Token sounds almost annoyed, “Of course not! Like Lassie! A, a classic Collie!”  
Classic Collie, huh? Tweek does his best to disguise his snort as a cough, but judging by the side-eye Token gives him, it hasn’t worked at all. “Sorry,” he mutters. It’s nuts, though – that he can actually _laugh_ at something, so soon after… after _that_.  
“I mean,” Token is saying, “Lots of people are dogs, you know?” He seems to be concentrating so hard on his driving that he’s forgetting to watch his mouth; Token normally phrases everything so carefully. “Like, Clyde’s a _typical_ Shar Pei.”  
“Huh?” Tweek _knows_ a Shar Pei is some kind of dog – but aren’t they supposed to be really _small?_ With like, a mountain of surplus skin hanging off them?  
“Yeah, like you know how they’re like super awkward as puppies, right? They’re born with their adult-sized skin, and it drags on the ground when they walk. Clyde was like that. Dumbass,” Token adds; under his breath. Just for a second Tweek thinks that’s for _him._ Then he realizes Token’s talking about the shitty old Chevy Suburban with an actual Confederate flag spray-painted (badly) across the trunk lid that’s just overtaken them, honking. With _way_ too little room to spare as far as Tweek is concerned; though Token still avoids the Suburban easily enough. Tweek can clearly see the bearded guy in the passenger seat giving them the finger with _both_ hands – not to mention the word his lips are forming.  
“What the hell,” Tweek yells, so angry on Token’s behalf that he doesn’t even _think_ of flipping the guy off in return until the Suburban and its cargo of hillbillies is well ahead of them.  
“Don’t worry about it,” Token snaps. His voice is strained. There’s absolutely no chance he _didn’t_ see that, too. “As I was saying, world’s most awkward puppies. But when they grow up, and their skin fits them like a glove? Then they look _badass._ Especially the silver ones.”  
“I, I think I get it now.” Making his voice sound normal after that little bit of drive-by racism isn’t exactly easy, but Tweek gives it his all-American best shot. “I mean, Clyde was probably kind of… awkward, right? When we were little?”  
A round-faced, high-strung boy, with hands and feet that had always seemed a few sizes too big. A boy who’d stood out in the snow and bawled until his face turned red, that time Marsh and Broflofski had called him the second-fattest kid in school. A boy who's now a bright-eyed young sports god, puppy-fat turned to muscle. Round face turned to chiselled jaw. Yeah, Tweek totally gets the whole Shar Pei thing now.  
“You’re allowed say “chubby crybaby”, you know.” Token’s grin isn’t quite normal, but he’s clearly doing his all-American best, too. “I won’t tell on you.”  
Just then, that stupid message alert makes Tweek’s phone ding; and he can’t quite suppress a growl. It’s Bebe, of course, even though she’s supposed to be in class right now. _Glad you’re feeling better! Cartman is here & Henrietta socked him! But McCormick isn’t in today, & I have a bad feeling about that. _Tweek realises Bebe’s still online, typing, just as a second message ticks in. _Also goddamn it yes, write me back, I don’t care if you write it on toilet paper!_  
Tweek grins, in spite of the sudden worry gnawing in his stomach, and types in “OK”. "Henrietta hit Cartman," he says, which makes Token laugh and shake his head. Tweek can't quite bring himself to join in, though. But, what the hell _else_ can McCormick possibly do? His phone buzzes, interrupting his thoughts, as a call comes in. The display reads _Grannyphone._  
“Guess who,” Tweek tells him, and he can’t help but smile. He’s suddenly all giddy to hear Craig’s voice again. Even though that awful newspaper is lying on the back seat, and he just needs to glance up into the rear-view mirror to see it, that’s not even important anymore. Tweek slides his thumb across the screen and switches to speakerphone, opens his mouth to say hi… and freezes, because that’s not Craig’s voice at all.  
“…used to come sit with you all the time, you know,” Kenny McCormick is saying, and though he’s clearly nowhere near the microphone, Tweek can hear him just fine. Token must have recognized his voice, too, because his hand snakes out to turn the volume all the way down on the radio.  
“Is that so,” Craig rasps, and Tweek’s throat tightens when he picks out the note of fear in Craig’s voice. “Nobody… told me.”  
“Well, it’s not like they’d have known,” McCormick says, with a little laugh. “All your little friends are law-abiding citizens. But I don’t have a problem with skipping school. I used to sit right there,” he laughs again, and there’s something about his laughter that makes the little hairs at the back of Tweek’s neck stand up, “And tell you about all _kinds_ of stuff.”  
“So why’d you… bring the knife,” Craig asks, and that’s when Token floors the gas pedal.  
Thrown back against the passenger seat, it’s all Tweek can do to hold his phone up and not drop it, not make any sound that might give them away. His heart, oh, his heart, it’s beating so hard that it _hurts._  
“Because I want you to listen to me,” McCormick says, his voice cracking just a little bit. “For _once_ in your life, Craig! Okay?!”  
“I’m listening now,” Craig replies, in his usual flat, nasal tone. “It’s not like… I can go anywhere. Could you not… sit on me, though?”  
Horrified, Tweek glances over at Token, who keeps his widening eyes fixed firmly on the road in front of them, as he indicates and then overtakes an old red Jetta. Still under the speed-limit; but just barely. Token’s hand is wrapped tightly around the knob of the gearstick, knuckles straining against skin. Every bit as terrified as Tweek is.  
It’s incredible, really, how calm Craig is. How he’s even giving them hints, on the other end of the phone, of what McCormick’s doing, and just how close to Craig he is. With a _knife,_ oh Jesus, Buddha and Ganesh, but Tweek can’t allow himself the luxury of freaking out over that.  
“Sure,” McCormick is saying, and there are muffled, shuffling sounds, but nothing that sounds even remotely like a pair of feet hitting the floor. “Sorry to get your sheets all dirty, by the way!”  
“I don’t… have to wash ‘em,” Craig drawls, and that makes McCormick laugh again.  
“See,” he says, “You _do_ have a sense of humor! Too bad about your taste in guys, though…” McCormick’s voice trails off, like he’s suddenly lost himself in his own thoughts. Tweek imagines him squatting at the foot end of Craig’s bed, running his thumb over the edge of a _huge_ knife.  
“Is this… about Tweek?” You can tell that Craig’s doing the best he can to keep his voice flat, but the anger still manages to seep into it. “Is _that_ why you… peed on his stuff?”  
“It’s about this _photo,_ for starters,” McCormick snaps, “That’s been doing the rounds in everybody’s chats at school. And I only pissed on their stupid statue,” he adds, sounding almost amused. “Jesus, Craig! I’m not some animal marking my territory!”  
Tweek has a pretty good idea which photo McCormick might be talking about. All it would take is for Clyde to share it with Bebe, and for Bebe to send it to, say, Wendy Testaburger, who’d then send it to _her_ bestie, Heidi Turner…  
“Hey,” McCormick suddenly snaps, “Keep your other hand where I can see it, okay?”  
There’s a long, awful pause on the other end, but at least they can still hear Craig’s dry, scratchy breathing. “Like they could even… get in here. After what… you’ve done with the door.”  
Token’s eyebrows shoot upwards, and Tweek knows this is Craig feeding them another clue. If McCormick’s blocked the door somehow… And he’s making sure Craig doesn’t pull the cord, too. So does that mean he’s sitting on the bed – but facing Craig? Facing _away_ from the window?  
“Why _do_ you… hate him so much,” Craig asks, and he’s fully in control of himself now. There’s no trace at all, of that red-hot anger Tweek heard just a few minutes ago.  
McCormick giggles like a little kid. “Dude,” he gasps, “How do I count the _ways!_ Did you know my friends _replaced_ me with that little pisslick, back when I almost died?”  
Tweek can suddenly see the roundabout that’s just before the hospital, with all its half-dead, dust-coated flowers. Just a little bit further now…! They spend agonizing seconds waiting before Token finally sees an opening in the traffic, and takes it; sliding the Prius in behind a sleek, bright orange Miata.  
“When we were… nine, you mean,” Craig is saying, as Token swerves them out of the roundabout and down towards the entrance of the parking garage, which opens up like a mouth in front of them. It’s like Craig can’t quite keep the disbelief out of his voice.  
“Hey! Don’t you look down your nose at _me!_ ” McCormick suddenly sounds so angry that Tweek gives a little jump. Token’s so startled; he almost drops the ticket he’s just pulled out of that little yellow machine by the boom gate. They both turn their heads to look at each other, just as McCormick starts talking again. “Just ‘cause you always had your own happy little gang of, of _sworn brothers_ or whatever you guys think you are, doesn’t mean everybody’s as lucky as you!”  
Friendship telepathy triggers itself, as Tweek suddenly knows _exactly_ what Token is thinking. That McCormick is nuts – really, truly nuts – and that Craig is in _way_ more danger than the two of them are equipped to deal with. Tweek has to jerk his chin at the windshield _three_ times, before Token unfreezes and remembers he still needs to park the Prius.  
“Kyle and Eric came to see me a few times, before they got bored. Stan didn’t bother _at all._ The only _real_ friend I had left; was Leo. And he was even a perfect match for bone marrow, can you believe that?”  
Tweek slides the passenger door open and steps outside, exchanging a frantic glance with Token. How can he even close it, without making enough noise to alert McCormick?  
“Leo came to visit almost every day, and drew me all these pictures that he taped up on the walls. Sometimes he just curled up on my bed like a cat, and _slept_ there.”  
Token waves his hand – _go over there_ – and as soon as Tweek’s run far enough away, Token carefully closes his own door, before he walks around the Prius and shuts the second door, too. Meanwhile, Tweek’s turning speakerphone off, in case it’ll cause an echo in here – they can’t afford to take any chances.  
“And you came too, that one time.” McCormick’s voice has suddenly softened. “With your mom, remember? You brought me comics.”  
“That was… nice of me,” Craig jokes weakly. Like he’s got no memory of it at all.  
Token runs up to Tweek, typing furiously on his iPhone. He holds it up, for Tweek to read the words on the screen, lit up like one of those glow-in-the-dark fish. _We have to go out and round the building,_ Token’s written, _Craig said hes done something to the door but hes only on the second floor and theres a window!!_  
Tweek nods once, already planning ahead as he takes off at a run past the boom-gate and out into the open. _He’ll_ never be able to hold Token’s weight, of course. It’s almost funny, because he remembers telling Craig he’d climb in through the window to see him – be careful what you wish for, right? At least _heights_ are one thing Tweek’s never been particularly afraid of. So if he can stand on Token’s shoulders…  
“We were two of the Wise Men in that Christmas play, remember?” McCormick is saying, “And Token was the black king, of course. And that time our class went to the Pioneer Museum,” his voice goes all warm again, “When I’d had a fight with Eric and didn’t wanna team up with him. You held my hand.”  
“Okay? There’s… a lot of stuff I can’t remember.” Tweek can tell that Craig is starting to get scared again. If only he could _see_ what’s going on in that room!  
“Huh.” McCormick’s voice is all toneless, like he’s disappointed, but trying to hide it. “So hey, d’you remember what role _Tweek_ had, in that Christmas play?”  
_Trick question, trick question,_ Tweek wants to shout, but of course he can’t.  
“A tree,” Craig replies instantly, “But he couldn’t stand still.” Of course it’s not Craig’s fault. Tweek even _talked_ about that stupid school play the other day, didn’t he?  
As soon as they’re out on the tarmac, Token takes the lead. Running up through a flowerbed and around the building; counting windows under his breath. Tweek keeps his phone pressed to his ear as he runs, doing his best to breathe through his nose and not pant.  
McCormick is laughing again, for the first time in a while now. But the _tone_ of his laughter has changed, grown colder, harsher. “It’s not like I didn’t _know_ you were nursing a boner for him,” McCormick says, and his voice drops to a purring whisper. “But why’d it have to be _him?_ ”  
“You mean,” Craig asks flatly, “Why not you?”  
“Shut up,” McCormick snaps, and now he’s angry, for real. “And put _both_ hands on the blanket - you don’t get to talk anymore.”  
Tweek stumbles, dizzy with fear, but Token whips his head around and grabs Tweek’s arm, before he can fall and make any noise. It’s gone completely silent on the other end, which isn’t just terrifying in its own right – it also makes finding the _right_ window even harder. But wait – there’s one that’s actually open. Only half open, but still… Just as Tweek points to it, he suddenly hears McCormick’s voice again, and he has to bite down hard on his lip to suppress a yelp.  
“How’s _that,_ ” McCormick is saying, and he sounds almost… pleased, almost… happy. Token, now standing right beneath the window, is frantically nodding and pointing upwards – he can hear McCormick, too.  
“You can kiss me… as much as you want, Kenny,” Craig is saying, very calmly. “And it won’t… mean a thing. Not when you’ve… pulled a knife on me.”  
McCormick swears horribly in response, and Tweek finally cuts the call, before tossing his phone into the dried-up, brown-leafed bushes that run along the back wall. Both his shoes follow – he doesn’t even bother untying the laces – and then, his mismatched socks. Token’s already crouched with his back against the wall, hands cupped in front of him, waiting for Tweek to slide his foot in there. He quickly scurries up onto Token’s shoulders – having bare feet helps; you can grip better, then – where he has to stand on tip-toe to peek inside the room.  
For a second, Tweek’s vision swims from pure, undiluted panic. McCormick is practically crouched on _top_ of Craig, and the knife is big enough that he can even see it from the window. He’s saying something else, McCormick, but too softly for Tweek to catch from over here.  
There’s no time to lose. Bracing his left foot on Token’s shoulder, Tweek _somehow_ swings his right leg over the windowsill. He can feel Token’s hand on his butt, pushing him upwards, and that helps. It isn’t easy, the way they make it look in the movies, to climb in through an open window. It takes real effort not to castrate himself, as Tweek slides first his right leg over that metal bar that runs along the windowsill, and then his left. At least he doesn’t make much sound when his feet connect with the linoleum; that’s another advantage to ditching his shoes.  
It’s impossible to tell if Craig has noticed him; but McCormick definitely hasn’t – he’s still talking to Craig, in that creepy, too-soft monotone. Tweek frantically looks around for anything he might use as a weapon, but all he can see is Craig’s empty breakfast tray – first or second breakfast? – on that little side-table with wheels. Someone – McCormick? – has pushed the thing away from the bed, towards the door, which has one of the chairs rammed up under the handle. That metal tray might’ve made for an excellent blunt instrument, but it’s too far for either Tweek or Craig to reach. Crap!  
In pure desperation, Tweek pats his pockets, and his hand closes around… Oh. It’s that half-eaten Snickers Nicole forced on him. Tweek swallows. Fine. It’s not like he’s never been in a fight before. And he’s kicked McCormick in the knee once, even though Craig _did_ help out that time – so he can probably do it again. Probably.  
He starts to run across the room, picks up speed, even as he places his bare feet carefully so they won’t slap against the floor.  
McCormick turns around at the last second, like he can _sense_ Tweek coming at him, but there’s only seconds between him noticing, and Tweek jumping. Throwing his arms around McCormick and hurtling them both into the floor, as the knife clatters down next to them. Tweek even manages to control the fall a little, so that he ends up on top. Straddling McCormick’s torso, pinning each flailing arm down with one knee.  
“Now, _you_ don’t get to talk,” Tweek snarls, as he shoves the candy bar, wrapper and all, inside McCormicks’ mouth. Feels a brief flash of satisfaction at that, before he remembers the knife, and kicks it back towards the window.  
Meanwhile, McCormick hacks and tries to spit, twisting like a snake underneath him, and Tweek realises far too late that he’s given the other boy an opening by kicking his knife away. The world is suddenly flipped over, and Tweek instinctively throws his arms around his head. So he avoids smacking it into the floor and re-concussing himself, but that leaves him wide open.  
And suddenly, McCormicks hands are closing around his throat, squeezing.


	25. I never wanna see another Snickers in my life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maybe it's just wishful thinking, but I _believe_ one of you has offered to embroider a picture of a Snickers with the words "You don't get to talk" curved tastefully around it? No? I actually love this idea so much that I might just attempt it on my own, with cross-stitch embroidery (because that's the only kind of embroidery I know how to do). It would make for a seriously weird and awesome sofa cushion.

Is this how Craig feels all the time? When he opens and closes his mouth, but there’s no sound? No sound; and no air. It’s not panic, exactly, this feeling – Tweek’s gone _beyond_ panic and into survival, as he grapples and pushes. But McCormick’s got one knee on his chest, and his grip around Tweek’s windpipe is so firm that Tweek’s vision is starting to turn black at the corners.  
Seconds feel like hours. The completely random things Tweek starts to notice, in between every hard-won gasp of air that he has to fight for. Like how McCormick’s breath on his face smells of tobacco, and how there’s a scar right above his left eye that’s left a thin, hairless stripe through his eyebrow. And he knows that, if he doesn’t do something soon, he is really going to die.  
Then there’s a clang, and McCormick’s grip suddenly goes slack, as his tall, wiry body slumps on top of Tweek. Filthy orange parka pressed against his face, McCormick’s weight making the zipper dig into his cheek. Not for long, though – because it turns out that being able to breathe unrestricted gives Tweek super-strength. He shoves McCormick off, which sets off a clattering noise – weird, but kind of irrelevant, Tweek decides, as he gets up into a sitting position and scoots away backwards on his butt. Standing up would be a bad idea, when his head’s spinning this badly.  
“Craig,” he rasps, running his fingers over his neck. He clears his throat, and on his second try, his voice comes out almost normal. “Craig?”  
Craig is sitting up in bed, eyes wide. Panting, holding his left hand out. He makes Tweek think of Magneto flipping police cars over. On the floor, there’s that metal tray from over on the rolling side-table, now with a round-ish dent in it. A _head-shaped_ dent. Is _that_ what hit McCormick; with enough force to practically wrap the metal around his head? There are two halves of a white porcelain bowl on the floor, too – one half’s flown all the way under the bed – and a few drops of milk.  
Someone is pounding on the door, shouting both their names. Token, probably. How long has he been doing that for? Tweek should probably get off the floor and let him in, but he can’t bring himself to move.  
“Did you have ceral for breakfast, Craig,” Tweek hears himself say, his voice all tinny and shrill. Because this shouldn’t have been possible. If Craig’s still sitting in bed, there is no _way_ he could’ve reached the tray – the side-table is just too far away for him to have grabbed the tray off it and thrown it.  
Unless…  
Tweek remembers having Chinese takeout with his parents on Halloween. How Craig had snapped his fingers at the plastic lid on the Sweet and Sour, and actually knocked it off. And he remembers crying in his room, and looking up to see Craig levitating his goodbye letters. Holding his hand out, just like he is now, straightening the crumpled pages and making them land in an orderly pile. _With his mind._  
“Holy shit,” Tweek hears himself whisper.  
Craig doesn’t seem to have realized that he’s done anything extraordinary. He brings his left arm around to yank at the call-cord, as hard as he can, pulling it all the way out – just like Clyde did, once. He swings his legs off the bed, and covers his throat just long enough to call out, “Token, we got him!” From the surprised look on Craig’s face, he was planning on _walking_ over to where Tweek is; only his legs give way under him.  
“Craig,” Tweek yells, terrified, but Craig catches himself on the safety-rail just fine, slowing his fall down to a gentle glide. Then he shuffles over on his hands and knees instead, that cord dragging on the floor behind him. Once he’s reached McCormick’s prone form, Craig sits up straight, balancing his butt on his heels. He wraps the ends of the cord around one hand, then the other, before he pulls the cord tight between them. The look he gives Tweek is frighteningly determined.  
Tweek swallows. “We’re gonna tie his hands up with that,” he says, his voice quivering as he forces the words out. “Right, Craig? _That’s_ what you brought it over for, isn’t it?”  
Slowly, Craig lowers his hands. He ducks his head, squeezes his eyes shut – but he’s not fast enough. Tweek can still see the tears running down his cheeks.  
The pounding on the door has only increased – did they not _hear_ Craig saying everything was fine? Sounds like there are more people than just Token out there, too – and whoever they are, they do _not_ need to see _this_.  
“Thank you,” Tweek whispers, reaching out to gently untangle the cord from Craig’s hands, while he presses his forehead against Craig’s. He can feel Craig shivering, and there’s nothing Tweek wants more than to hold him close, but there’s no _time._ He makes a loop in the cord; like that boatman’s knot Dad taught him when he was little, before he hastily shoves both of McCormick’s hands inside it. McCormick is still out cold. Just as well the bastard landed on his front, when Tweek pushed him off. “You finish this up,” he says, pressing the cord back between Craig’s limp fingers, though what he’s really saying is, _I trust you._ “And I’ll get the door, okay? Craig?”  
Craig shakes himself, then nods. He rubs the back of his free hand over his eyes before his fingers tighten around the cord, and he loops it once, twice, around McCormick’s hands. Tweek shakily climbs to his feet, and almost slips and falls right down again. He must’ve stepped on something wet, he decides, probably milk from that cereal Craig had for breakfast. Or maybe it was instant porridge, in that bowl, Tweek thinks, as he grabs the chair and yanks it out from under the doorknob. He throws it down on the floor with a thud. Instant porridge would’ve been made with milk too, right? It’s easier to think about little things like that, than about Craig making that tray fly, or wanting to use that cord to…  
“Tweek,” Token yells, giving his shoulders a quick squeeze before he runs over to Craig. “Holy shit, man,” Token drops on his knees next to Craig and throws his arms around him, and Tweek can feel himself start to smile when Craig hugs Token back. “You’re okay, you’re okay!”  
That burly nurse with the man-bun pushes past him, over to where Token and Craig are crouched, flipping McCormick’s unresponsive body over. The next one in is Nurse Amy, the one with all the tattoos, taking Craig’s pulse and helping him to his feet – along with another male nurse, a short, compact Hispanic guy with a goatee.  
“Jesus, whose blood is that?”  
“Blood,” Tweek says, blinking as he looks around to see who asked. Was _that_ what he stepped in, when he slipped and almost fell? Did Craig actually hit McCormick hard enough with that tray to… “Oh.” There’s a long smear of blood, a thick, uneven stripe, leading right up to the door. And Tweek suddenly realizes that his right foot is stinging. “It’s me, huh?”  
“Help _Tweek,_ ” Craig is wheezing, batting the nurse’s hands away, “He must’ve… cut himself… when he kicked it!”  
“The knife,” Tweek says, just to clarify, standing on one leg so he can lift his foot up and inspect it. “Ow.” There’s a long gash running along the bottom of his sole, and now dripping blood down on his jeans. Damn. And these pants just came out of the wash, too! Not to mention he still hasn’t got that other pair of jeans back, the pair he left in a plastic bag back at the shoes store. It’s not like Tweek owns _that_ many pairs of jeans; this is really gonna upset the whole laundry routine at home. Wait, what? Why’s he even thinking about that now? And also, wow. Wow. That knife must’ve been _sharp._  
Someone’s pressing on Tweek’s shoulders, telling him to sit down – Token. He’s righted that chair up, and Tweek sinks down on it, equal parts exhausted and relieved. More and more people are milling into the room, including that red-haired nurse with the curls; carrying a first-aid kit. A doctor – a woman this time – who examines Craig; shining a light into his eyes, asking him questions that Tweek can’t quite hear. And two uniformed security guards, to deal with McCormick.  
Meanwhile, Tweek is having his foot disinfected. “Squeeze my hand when it hurts,” Token is saying, crouching next to the chair while Nurse Ruth works. Token is wrapping Tweek’s stubby little fingers around his own long, slim fingers, and his hand is shaking, sending tremors all the way up Tweek’s arm. “Okay, Tweek?”  
Tweek just grins at him and shrugs. Sure, it hurts, but it's not _awful_. Token seems to be _way_ more freaked out about this than _he_ is.  
“Up you get,” the burlier of the two guards is saying, as they yank the now-awake but very groggy boy in the orange parka to his feet. “The police are on their way to deal with _you._ ”  
At the last second, McCormick twists his head and stares right at Tweek, eyes so full of hate that Token yelps and jerks his head back, before he yells, “Don’t you look at him like that!”  
McCormick ignores him. Just locks eyes with Tweek, and drawls, “Like I said. You and him. Such a waste.”  
Tweek doesn’t flinch, though he can’t quite find his voice, he discovers that he _can_ hold that eye contact – he even feels his own lips twist into a smirk.  
“Hey, Kenny,” Craig rasps, from the far end of the room. Tweek and McCormick turn as one to look at him, this boy that they are both in love with, as Craig raises his hand and gives McCormick the finger.  
McCormick is still laughing, as the guards drag him outside, sandwiched between them.  
“How,” Token whispers, and when Tweek looks at him, Token’s staring at him like Tweek’s just grown a second head or something. “How the _hell_ could you stay so calm?”  
Tweek smiles, before he reaches out to muss Token’s tight curls. “I’ve never felt more calm in my life, actually,” he replies. 

After the long gash in his foot has been sealed up with surgical glue and bandaged up like a Christmas present, Nurse Ruth asks Tweek whether or not he’s had a Tetanus shot in the past five years.  
“Uh,” Tweek replies, “I honestly have no idea?”  
So then he gets bundled off downstairs to Urgent Care, after Nurse Jonathan’s brought him a plastic sandal to wear on his bandaged foot, and Token has sworn to run back outside for Tweek’s sneakers and phone. He leaves Craig’s room at the same time as Tweek and the nurse, half walking, half running down the corridor ahead of them, rubbing his arms.  
Of course, there are other people in Urgent Care who need to be seen way more, well, urgently than Tweek. It’s still a quiet day though, so he only needs to wait twenty minutes or so. After his shot, which doesn’t even hurt, they have to keep him for observation, just in case Tweek reacts to the vaccine. So that’s another twenty minutes, spent under a blanket on a bench. The nurse even turns the lights off in there, so he can try to have a little nap. Impossible, Tweek thinks, since his thoughts are churning like crazy, but all of a sudden someone’s shaking his arm, and there’s drool on his face.  
Tweek’s feeling downright _refreshed,_ as he hobbles over to the elevator on one bare foot and one plastic-sandal-wearing foot. It’s the weirdest sensation, like one leg’s suddenly longer than the other. They’ve given him this little “vaccination card” to hold onto and it's the cutest thing; a yellow piece of cardboard folded in half like a tiny book. It reminds Tweek of those report cards he used to get in elementary school. He had a small internal struggle before he managed _not_ to tell the poor nurse that he’ll treasure it forever, but maybe his exhaustion is cancelling out his ADHD or something.  
By the time Tweek gets back to Craig’s room, not only is Craig fully dressed and even wearing a pair of _jeans_ with his grey NASA hoodie; he’s _got_ to be feeling better if he’s wearing jeans, right? That’s almost like saying he’s back to normal! Craig’s mom is there as well, though. Still wearing her teller’s uniform from her job at the bank, her long hair gathered up in a ponytail at the nape of her neck. Token’s nowhere to be seen, but Tweek doubts he just got into the Prius and drove back to school. Maybe they’re questioning him in a different room?  
Craig spots Tweek first, over the head of the police officer who’s sitting there with his notebook balanced on one knee, and even from the doorway, Tweek can see how Craig’s face instantly relaxes. “Hey babe,” he says, letting go of his mom’s hand so he can wave and talk to Tweek at the same time. “Token brought your cows!”  
“Thanks,” Tweek says, limping over to where Craig is pointing – Token’s left his shoes right next to the side table, socks draped neatly on top, “But you’re not saying that right. This is a shoe,” he holds the left Converse up, grateful that it’s only the tiniest bit wet. “You just said…” he bites his lip for a second – if Craig really can’t hear the difference, there might not be any point to just saying “cow”, so… “A thing that goes moo. I’m a poet, and I know it,” Tweek adds, rolling his eyes at his own unintentional rhyme.  
Craig actually snorts, like he isn’t embarrassed about his slip-up at _all_. “Thanks,” he grins at Tweek. “Sorry,” he adds, glancing over at his mom.  
Laura Tucker sighs. “If anybody should apologize,” she says, standing up, “It’s me. Tweek,” she holds her hand out, “I’m sorry. About everything.”  
For a second, the relief almost knocks him off his feet. “That’s, that’s okay,” Tweek mutters, while he limps across the room to take Mrs Tucker’s hand. It’s warm, and her grip is very firm.  
“Tweek?!”  
He barely has time to register that his own mom’s turned up before she’s barrelling into him, hard enough to make him step down on his bad foot. At least the surgical glue seems to be the real deal, because there’s no tearing sensation, no sudden gush of blood.  
“Hey Mom,” he yelps, just as Mom throws her arms around him from behind. Slotting her head into the nook between Tweek’s chin and shoulder blade, nuzzling him like a cat. He can tell that she’s shaking like crazy. “What kind of Rambo bullshit have you been _up_ to, young man,” Mom yells, right into his ear, and she’s clearly not intending for it to be funny. But, well… Mom swearing is just too cute. And here he is, still holding onto Mrs Tucker’s hand, too. How stupid does this even look? Normally he’d be too embarrassed to go on living, but right now? Right now, Tweek can’t _help_ but laugh.  
Suddenly Dad’s there, too, hugging both of them at the same time. “We should ground you until you’re _thirty,_ ” Dad says, but he’s totally kidding; Tweek can tell. “Richard Tweak,” he adds, wrapping his hand around Tweek’s smaller hand, and gently pumping Mrs Tucker’s hand up and down. “We’ve met before, at PTA meetings. _And_ at my coffee shop, that time you came in to shout at my son.”  
“ _And_ in here,” Craig drawls, while Tweek slides his hand out of Mrs Tucker’s and balls it up.  
“Senile,” Tweek pretend-coughs, pressing his fist against his lips. It’s hardly Jimmy-level, but even the police officer laughs. 

It seems that Token is having some kind of delayed stress reaction. He’s snuck inside the same waiting room where Craig possessed Tweek, and they put out all those post-its on the floor. Kicked his purple Converse off and stretched his long legs out on one of the ugly sofas, typing furiously away on his laptop. Token’s teeth are clattering, and he seems to be shivering all over, for all that he’s draped his jacket over his legs like a blanket.  
“But you’re freezing,” Mom exclaims, as soon as she sees him. She tagged along, when Tweek slipped out to look for Token. They’re still waiting for Token’s dad to show up. Dad doesn’t want Tweek to give his statement without a lawyer present, and Mom doesn’t seem too keen on letting him out of her sight. Tweek has to admit that's fair enough. She _did_ just hear about how McCormick tried to choke him to death, after all.  
"Here!" Mom shoves her satchel into Tweek’s arms and whips off that big mint-green cardigan she’s wearing, running over to wrap it around Token’s shoulders.  
“Oh,” Token says, looking up from the screen, which is full of multi-coloured lines of code. “H-hey, Mrs Tweak.” It’s like his eyes can’t help but slide down to Mom’s bare arms; because of course she’s wearing her Eiffel Tower T-shirt today, with her brand-new coffee bean skirt. Outfit Number Two; the one Tweek told her _not_ to wear because she’d get too cold, visiting Craig. The coffee shop’s always warm, though, so Mom must’ve figured she’d be okay in there. Even though Tweek’s seen those cigarette burns on her arms all his life, it’s different now, with Token seeing them for the first time. Tweek always forgets how _many_ of them there are. “Damn,” Token whispers, before he quickly wrenches his gaze away, blinking like crazy.  
“Don’t worry about these,” Mom says, rubbing her hand up and down Token’s back. “That was a long time ago. Tweek, grab my purse, will you? Go buy him a hot drink from that vending machine down the hall?”  
“N-no, I’m f-fine,” Token protests, while Tweek’s digging Mom’s wallet out and shoving it down his own back pocket. Even though _he_ was the one who bought her this thing, a couple of birthdays ago, it’s not the sort of thing Tweek wants to be seen carrying. Fair enough it’s green, but it’s also embroidered with flowers and feathers, and has a green pompom attached to the zipper on a little beaded string. Mom loves it, of course.  
The vending machine’s only a few doors down, so it doesn’t take Tweek _that_ long to buy Token a hot chocolate and hobble back inside. Token’s swung his legs off the sofa and put his laptop on the table; and Mom is sitting opposite him, blowing on his hands.  
“It’s fine,” Token’s saying, “They called my dad already, and he’s a lawyer. And you don’t know black women, Mrs Tweak,” he adds, with a note of real fear in his voice. “My mom’ll just give me a hard time about not being in school.”  
“I think you were exactly where you needed to be,” Mom replies, before she smiles up at Tweek. “Both of you. Is that all you get,” she adds, as Tweek carefully puts the little plastic cup down on the table – as far away from Token’s MacBook as he can. It’s funny; he’s so used to his own hands shaking all the time, but now? Now they’re weirdly still.  
“Afraid so,” Tweek tells her, sitting down on the floor by Mom’s feet.  
“At Tweak Bros,” Mom picks the cup up, wrapping Token’s fingers around it, “You’d get one three _times_ this size. _And_ we’d put whipped cream on it for you. Can you drink that without spilling?”  
Token nods, and a bit of sugar and warmth seems to be just what he needs. It doesn’t take him long at all, to finish off that ridiculously small cup.  
“Thanks.” Token even sounds like his old self, now. “Guess I’d better get back to building that website, I already bought the domain name. What,” he adds, giving Tweek a long look, “You think _Craig’s_ the only one who can code? And Jimmy’s already emailed me that font.”  
Tweek blinks. “That was fast.” Is second period even _over_ yet?  
“Oh, Jimmy texted to say he and Clyde went off-script,” Token raises one eyebrow. “After Clyde stuck his hands in his pockets, and realized he had all those post-its with Craig’s writing on crammed in there. So they decided not to bother getting Mr Donovan’s car, and just took the bus over to Tweak Bros instead.”  
“All of a sudden, Clyde was in the coffee shop.” Mom reaches down to tuck Tweek’s hair behind his ear. “Lifting me off my feet and crying.” She’s shaking her head as she stands up, but her smile is fond. “Now you sit here, and elevate that foot.”  
“Mom, come on. It’s not swollen or anything.” Tweek takes her spot anyway, and slips the sandal off, before he stretches his right leg out next to Token. “Sorry if my foot smells.”  
“It’s fine,” Token mutters, grinning just a little bit.  
“Jimmy showed us a copy of that paper,” Mom is saying, “And we decided to just close up and go get to the bottom of the whole thing.”  
“Dad closed the shop,” Tweek yelps, so surprised that it comes out _way_ louder than it should, “Of his own free will?!”  
“Believe it or not,” Dad drawls, as he ducks his head inside the door, “Some things are more important. Like you.”  
Tweek feels his own cheeks instantly turn bright red. “Sorry, Dad,” he mutters, ducking his head.  
“Token,” Dad goes on, as he comes over to very gently bop Tweek in the head, “I’ve been thinking. Could you use those photos from the burglary that I took? They’re all on my phone.”  
“Yes!” Token’s face instantly lights up. “Here,” he grabs a round little jet-black doohickey off the table, “Wifi router. I taped the password to the bottom. Hospital wifi’s just _crap_. Tweek, can you text your dad my number?” He’s already got his MacBook open again, typing with one hand, while he pulls his iPhone from his back pocket with the other. “I’m writing one of the articles we need, _and_ building the site, but would it be okay if I interviewed you two now? We can record it on my phone, and I’ll edit it later – and did Jimmy ask you anything, sir? On the drive to school, I mean?”  
“Jimmy already had a bunch of stuff written down,” Dad replies, “He was mostly checking facts and dates. And he asked if I’d agree to let him put that video of me talking nonsense on LSD up on your site. I told him I’d think about it.”  
Tweek _really_ doesn’t want him to say yes; but he knows that needs to be Dad’s decision and nobody else’s. So he busies himself texting Jimmy – _Have you got any questions for my parents, they’re here now_ – and gives a start when Jimmy _calls_ him instead of just texting back.  
“Hey!” On the other end, Jimmy sounds all wired, like this is the most exciting case he’s ever been in charge of as the school paper’s editor. “We’ve g-got a scanner in the n-news room, so that’s w-where I’m hiding! And I think b-better up here, anyway. T-Token t-t-tells me you t-two had an action-p-packed m-m-morning,” he adds hopefully.  
“Let me guess,” Tweek groans, “You want to interview me about _that?_ ”  
“I’ve already taken some notes from the drive here,” Token says, as he swings his long legs back up on the couch. “You know, whatever bits of his crazy ranting I remember!”  
“You should be talking to Token,” Tweek tells Jimmy, before he hands his phone over. This stuff’s way above his… mental pay-grade, or whatever. 

Mr Black finally arrives, and Tweek _finally_ gets to give his witness statement – in a completely separate room from Token _and_ from Craig, so that none of their statements will “cross-contaminate” each other. Dad sits in on it; too, just watching everything with his arms folded, while Mr Black takes notes on the tablet he pulled out of his briefcase.  
It’s kind of surreal to see the knife again; now sealed up in an evidence bag like it’s a sandwich or something. Still with Tweek’s blood, now turning brown, on the blade. The red-haired police detective, who’s introduced himself as simply “Detective Yates”, puts it down on the desk between them as soon as Tweek’s sat down, saying, “Is this the weapon?”  
Tweek swallows, as he suddenly imagines McCormick crouching on top of Craig, pressing this thing against his throat. This huge, deadly thing. “Yes,” he whispers, his voice suddenly unsteady. But at least Tweek manages to look the detective right in the eye.  
They go through the events of the day, agonizingly slowly, while Detective Yates jots down his messy notes and Mr Black’s hands fly across the surface of his tablet. The detective produces a second evidence bag, this one with a slimy, half-eaten Snickers bar in it, and as soon as that thing’s on the table, all the adults are having serious trouble keeping a straight face. Tweek doesn’t think it’s _that_ funny – what’s wrong with using what you’ve got to hand, anyway? That Snickers bought him the element of surprise, didn’t it?  
When they’re done, Detective Yates gives Tweek a pat on one shoulder and says, “You did good; kid!”  
“Most, ah, inventive use of a candy-bar I’ve ever come across,” Mr Black concurs, in his smooth lawyer’s voice.  
“I never wanna see another Snickers in my _life,_ ” Tweek growls under his breath. “Jesus!” But Dad hears him anyway, and laughs until tears start rolling down his cheeks.  
“If you can take down your mortal enemy with a Snickers,” Dad says, sliding his arm around Tweek’s shoulder as they leave the room, “I think I can deal with putting my acid trip on the internet.”  
“Dad!” Tweek hates how his voice cracks. “Don’t, don’t do it if you’re not sure, okay? I mean, people can be _assholes_ online, and what if it hurts the coffee shop, or…”  
“I think rumors floating around about me lacing our coffee with _meth_ will probably do more harm than that video, in the long run.” Dad nods to himself. “Whatever happens, I’ll deal with it. I kept my copy of the invoice; you know,” he adds, “The one I had to fill in to get paid. Mostly because I thought it was hilarious at the time, but… Maybe I should frame it, and hang up it next to the food safety certificate?”  
“Dad, no,” Tweek groans.  
“You should see your face,” Dad snorts, as he steers Tweek down the hall. “Tweek,” Dad suddenly stops walking, which makes Tweek stumble on his bad foot, “I’m just so proud of you.”  
“Thanks,” Tweek whispers, before he gives Dad the longest hug ever. “I’m proud of you, too,” he adds, and he means it, one _hundred_ percent. 

“Is that a, a _redial_ button,” Tweek asks, eyes widening at the wonder of ancient tech.  
Craig, who’s been holding the Grannyphone up for inspection, nods. “When he came in,” Craig wheezes, “I was trying to text you. So I… shoved it under the grass. No?”  
“No,” Tweek agrees, whipping his own phone out and doing a quick image search. “What you wanted to say was _this,_ right?” He pulls lightly at the duvet that they’re both sitting on top of, on Craig’s bed. “But what you _said,_ was this,” Tweek goes on, and holds up his phone, with a picture of a green meadow displayed on the screen.  
“Goddamn it,” Craig groans. “Field?”  
“Grass,” Tweek tells him, and then, since it’s just them and Token in here right now, he leans over and gives Craig a super quick kiss on the cheek. “Don’t worry about it, okay?”  
Out of the corner of his eye, Tweek can see Token watching them, with this really bemused look on his face. After Tweek came out from his interview with Detective Yates, Token – on his way in there, for his own “debriefing” or whatever they’re supposed to call it, made Tweek promise not to tell Craig about the newspaper – _yet._ “Even if you phone him tonight and tell him, it’d probably be okay,” Token had said, his brown eyes flickering from Tweek’s face and down to the floor. “Just, not now? I just think it’d be too much for him, after…” It had been a request, not an order, but Tweek had agreed at once. Even though it’s technically lying by omission. Hell, he can’t even bring himself to mention how Craig lifted that tray _with his mind._ That would _definitely_ fall into the category of “too much”.  
“Okay.” Craig’s nodding now, and his features are slowly relaxing into a cautious grin. “So I shoved it… under _this,_ ” he raises the duvet up with his free hand, “And pressed that… button?”  
“Button,” Tweek agrees, grinning back at Craig. “So that’s how you wound up calling me, without McCormick figuring it out.”  
“Mm,” Craig says, lacing his fingers through Tweek’s. They don’t have much time left, now, before Craig’s due to leave for Denver. Mrs Tucker has already had to go back to work, and so has Dad, hoping to at least catch the afternoon rush. And Bryan’s agreed to fill in for Mom, even though it’s the world’s shortest notice.  
“You guys are too disgustingly cute for me to deal with,” Token declares, slapping his knees as he stands up. He walks over to the bed, and clasps Craig’s arm for a second, before pulling him into a very careful hug. “I’ll see you in Denver, all right?”  
Craig nods and hugs Token back.Tweek can see a huge sigh work its way through his body and make his shoulders slump, when Token finally pulls free and walks out, stopping at the door to wave one last time. To finally get his friends back, only to lose them all again – it can’t be easy for him, Tweek thinks.  
“So, Craig,” he asks, eager to distract, “Can you breathe through your nose okay?”  
“No worse… than usual,” Craig responds, looking puzzled.  
“Okay,” Tweek draws a deep breath. “So if, if I kiss you now, I won’t accidentally kill you?”  
Craig is startled into laughing – silently, since Tweek’s question took him by surprise, and he didn’t even have time to cover the neck hole again. He bumps his forehead against the side of Tweek’s head, and even after Tweek has closed his eyes, he can feel Craig shaking. “It’ll take more… than _that,_ to finish me off,” he says at last.  
Tweek opens his eyes, and stares right into Craig’s bottleglass brown ones. “Is that a challenge,” he asks, raising one eyebrow. Too bad he can’t quite keep the smirk off his face, though.  
“Sure,” Craig drawls, as his free hand digs through the tangled hair at the nape of Tweek’s neck, pulling him closer. “Impress me.”  
“Asshole,” Tweek snorts, and then they’re kissing.


	26. A million dollars in an unmarked suitcase

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here's a chapter where - spoiler - nobody gets stabbed or kicked in the head. Or if they do, at least it happens off-screen. This chapter is also a panic-attack free zone. I hope you enjoy the brief respite. ;)
> 
> EDIT: Because parts of this were written and posted rather late at night, I've had to go and fix a few things/stick in bits of dialogue that I either accidentally deleted or that were only ever in my head. So if you've already read this chapter and feel like reading it again, please do because it'll be better now. I mean, in my other fic I actually wrote "foot" instead of "hand", which is pretty drastic even for me! This chapter wasn't quite as bad, but still...! 
> 
> Also, the ringtone Token's set for his mom is the instrumental bit at the start of I Put a Spell On You. At one point I will have put together a big old playlist of all the songs I listened to and referenced in this story, anyone who's interested! XD

They sit on the bed, Tweek tailor-style, Craig with his left leg dangling off the edge, his foot swinging just above the floor.  
“Your hair grew out all soft,” Tweek is saying, as he runs his fingers through the black fuzz on Craig’s head. “I always used to want to touch your hair, you know?”  
“I always wanted… to do _this,_ ” Craig says, and leans forwards just a little bit, putting his free hand under Tweek’s chin. Rubbing the side of Tweek’s jaw with his thumb, while he leans in closer, and Tweek lets his eyes slip shut. Softly, carefully, the two boys melt into each other.  
They can only kiss for about thirty seconds at a time, but that’s okay. That’s more that Tweek used to think would ever be possible. “I’m gonna miss you so much,” he whispers, bumping his forehead against Craig’s chest. “I mean, I know it’s just Denver, and not…”  
“The Andromeda nebula,” Craig rasps, braiding his fingers through Tweek’s.  
“R-right.” Tweek can’t help but laugh. “How do you always do that, anyway?”  
“Huh?” Craig sounds so confused that Tweek has to laugh again. “What?”  
“Cheer me up,” Tweek says, sitting back so he can look up at Craig’s face. So he can memorize every detail of it. “Make me laugh. No matter how shitty I feel, you always…”  
Craig just shrugs in response, but he looks pretty pleased. “Maybe,” he says after a minute, as he starts to blush, “Maybe I was just… watching you… for so long that I…”  
“What,” Tweek asks him, but suddenly Craig’s bending down, his lips carefully pushing against Tweek’s lips, and the answer stops mattering. Everything that isn’t kissing stops mattering. 

“Oh God,” Token says, as he puts his iPhone down on the coffee table with his car keys on top. He’s staring at the Lollipop Buddha, which is now sporting that dark grey Trilby hat Dad sometimes wears, if he’s taking Mom out somewhere nice. “You really don’t have to keep it out if you don’t want to, Mrs Tweak. I swear I won’t tell my mom.” He gave Mom her cardigan back before they left the hospital, of course – but still, Tweek can tell that he’s thinking about it. About all those circular little burns.  
“Don’t be silly,” Mom tells him, looking up from stuffing a pillow under Tweek’s feet. He’s on the couch, under firm orders not to move unless he _really_ needs the bathroom, “It was a present! Now, I’m going to put on a pizza for you two,” Mom weaves her arm around Token’s, pulling him towards the kitchen, “So come out and tell me – not you,” she adds pointing very firmly at Tweek, “And tell me which one you’d like? Or should I make two? How much do you eat?”  
Tweek sinks back into the sofa, pulls the quilt a little tighter around him. Thinks about how the three of them went outside with Craig, to say goodbye. Watching as they loaded Craig into the ambulance for the long drive to Denver, staying behind and waving until he couldn’t even _see_ the ambulance anymore… well, it _sucked._ Now Tweek won’t get to see him until the _weekend._  
Huh. This Saturday…  
Before he can lose his nerve, Tweek shifts over, pulls his phone out of his pocket and starts typing out a text for Craig’s Grannyphone. _Think we can sneak you out on Sat for a date? It’s my birthday. ;) PS you don’t need to make me a present out of tongue depressors or whatever. YOU ARE THE PRESENT._  
Ugh, can he even _send_ Craig something that cheesy? But then, Tweek wouldn’t actually want Craig to stress out about getting him a present. And it _is_ true, so… Tweek closes his eyes, draws a deep breath. Okay. He opens his eyes, hits send, then pulls the quilt all the way over his head. “Jesus,” he mutters, and gives one gigantic twitch that seems to travel from his toes to the tips of his hair.  
On the coffee table, Token’s phone suddenly starts to buzz, which makes the car keys jangle, and play the opening bars of an old Nina Simone song, over and over.  
“Don’t answer that, Tweek,” Token’s yelling from the kitchen, “That’s my mom!”  
“Dude,” Tweek gasps, checking the phone screen and confirming that it says “Mom” on there, “Are _you_ psychic?!”  
“Hardly,” Token snorts, as he ambles back into the living room with his hands shoved into his pockets. Almost like he’s saying, Don’t make me answer that. “I just set separate ringtones for my parents? Just let it ring,” he pleads. “I can call her back later.”  
“I’ll talk to her,” Mom offers, plucking the iPhone out of Tweek’s hand.  
“No, that’s –” Token begins, but Mom’s already accepted the call and tucked the iPhone under her chin. “Hello Linda, it’s Helen. If you want to see your son alive, I’ll need a million dollars in an unmarked suitcase…”  
“Mom,” Tweek hisses, doing his very best not to laugh, but Token’s face…! His mouth keeps opening and closing like a goldfish.  
“Oh, right,” Mom is saying, “Unmarked _bills_. I’ll keep that in mind for, for next time. Token’s just driving us home.” She glances over at Tweek, eyes shining, waggling her eyebrows, and Tweek has to snort into his hand. “Well no, it seems they already gave him the day off, so he could take Tweek to the doctor.” Mom nods to herself while she waits for Mrs Black to respond, like she’s already planned out the next thing she wants to say and is just itching to get it out. “Oh, he’s doing much better. Thank you! But honestly, I don’t know what we would’ve done without Token.” Mom’s tone suddenly turns all serious. “You should be so proud of him. I’ve asked him to stay with Tweek for the afternoon, would that be okay? The school’s called me in for a meeting with some of the other parents, and there’s no one else I’d trust.” Mom’s smile widens, as she winks and gives Tweek a thumbs-up. “Three thirty. Really? All right, Linda,” Mom chirps, “I’ll tell him that. Well, see you there, hopefully! Byee!”  
“Um, tell me what, Mrs Tweak?” Token seems deathly embarrassed for some reason – like Mom even said anything that wasn’t true!  
“Oh, just to call her back when you can,” Mom tells him, with a breezy wave of her hand. “You know that school councillor, the one with the head? He’s called an emergency meeting, and your mother’s going to try to get of early so she can go with me. Here,” Mom adds, holding the phone out to Token.  
“Most people have heads, Mom,” Tweek teases. He hopes Mrs Black can make it, though. Mom on her own, versus Mrs Cartman, the Stotches _and_ the McCormicks is _not_ exactly a fair… fight, or debate, or whatever you’re supposed to call it.  
“You,” Mom says, and pokes her finger into Tweek’s chest, shaking her head. She can’t quite stop herself from smiling, though. “Wherever did you get all that sass from, huh?”

After Mom leaves, they eat a whole pizza piled with vegetables and goats cheese. Olives, green peppers, mushrooms, red onion, sweetcorn and aubergines – oh, and _two_ loaves of garlic bread. Tweek didn’t even realize how hungry he was until he hobbled out into the kitchen – seriously, he can walk on that foot just fine – and got a whiff of the hot foot. He also takes a Xanax; the first one he’s had since breakfast, even though it’s not exactly been stress-free day… He’s just not thought of it, or felt the need for it, for some reason. Because Token insists it’ll be faster if Tweek lets him do it on his own, he winds up just sitting there, while Token rinses their mis-matched plates off and tidies everything back up. Watching Token just make himself at home here is kind of nice, though.  
In his pocket, Tweek’s phone buzzes with Craig’s reply, sent from the Grannyphone. _Whoa,_ it says, and that’s it. Hah, typical Craig! It buzzes again two second later; but this time, the text is from a different number. _Hey finally got my real toothpaste back so this is my number. And I’ll find a way to get out!! Esp. if all you want is a crane._  
Tweek snorts loudly as he imagines it – Craig and him at a fancy restaurant with like, three different kinds of cutlery laid out next to the plates. And Craig, in a freshly-pressed black suit – but with his hat on, of course, because this is Craig – picking up a cage from the floor and putting it in the middle of the table. A huge black and white bird will be crouched in there. Eyeing Tweek up with one shifty, evil eye before it squawks and sticks its long red beak out between the bars, to try and bite him. And then Craig will say, “Happy birthday, babe! I named him Spot.”  
“What’re you laughing at,” Token asks, wiping his hands on his expensive jeans as he walks over.  
“It’s just, um,” Tweek mutters, hurriedly putting his phone back in his pocket. He can’t have Token or any of the others finding out about his birthday. Then it’ll be like, like he’s _expecting_ them to do something for it, and buy him gifts, and gah! They haven’t been friends for _that_ long, it just wouldn’t be _right_. “Just Craig.”  
“ _Just_ Craig?” Token raises one eyebrow. Ugh, that’s right, Token _hates_ being left out of stuff. “Reduced to “just Craig", huh,” Token drawls, nodding to himself. “He’ll _love_ that.”  
The doorbell rings then, saving Tweek from having to come up with a reply, and Jimmy and Clyde pile inside, Clyde shouting, “Jesus, dude! You got into a _knife fight_ with McCormick?!”  
“Not, not exactly,” Tweek yelps, while Jimmy pulls out a kitchen chair with one crutch and slumps into it.  
“We m-managed to c-c-collect almost all the front p-p-pages,” he says, swinging his satchel off his shoulder and onto the kitchen table. “I thought you m-might w-want to b-burn ‘em?”  
“Well technically, they’re evidence,” Token says, taking a chair for himself, “Though it might have some therapeutic value.”  
“Yeah, yeah,” Clyde is saying, tossing his school bag down on the floor, next to the one remaining empty chair. Tweek can’t help but notice that Clyde’s knuckles are all scraped up. “But is your foot okay, Tweek?!”  
"And w-what's this s-stuff about McCormick forcing Craig to _k-k-kiss_ him?!"  
Once Tweek’s assured Clyde that his foot barely hurts at all, which isn’t even stretching the truth, now that he’s all blissed out on Xanax, Clyde finally takes a seat and cracks his knuckles across the table. “Well, anyway,” he says, “Little Leo sang like a canary.”  
“Jesus, Clyde,” Token snaps, rolling his eyes, “Could you sound any _more_ like a thug?”  
“Probably,” Clyde replies, and now he’s all but vibrating with his eagerness to spill some serious beans, “If I work at it. But, don’t you guys wanna _hear_ what he said?”  
“And here I was gonna show _you guys_ my website first,” Token fires back, but he’s grinning. “Fine. Meeting in session.”  
“All right. So the short version,” Clyde says, “Is that Cartman called the printers first thing this morning, pretending to be Jimmy.”  
“T-t-turns out, Cartman can do a p-passable impression of me,” Jimmy says, grinning and wagging his eyebrows. “Guess all those years of m-m-making fun of my stutter came in h-handy.”  
“Asshole,” Token says, with feeling.  
“Douchebag,” Tweek growls, and pulls his hair just once, with both hands, before he draws a deep breath and puts them flat down on the table. “Gah! I hate that guy!”  
“D-d-don’t we all.”  
“Yeah, so then Cartman lied about Jimmy having to go to hospital for some kind of treatment, and said his _friends_ were gonna wait for the delivery instead. Only they’d need to make the delivery in the parking lot behind the gym, because of some building works that Cartman _also_ made up. And they totally fell for that, too; even though there was no scaffolding _anywhere._ ”  
“They’d p-printed off the fake f-f-front pages s-separate,” Jimmy goes on, picking up the thread, “Over the w-weekend. On the photocopier where Cartman’s mom w-w-works. So then they just s-stapled them over the real front p-page…” While he talks, he pulls out a copy, and places it in the middle of the kitchen table for inspection. Turns the first page over rubbing it between his fingers. “The p-paper quality’s completely different,” he adds, rolling his eyes at the ceiling. “F-f-f-f…” Jimmy growls quietly, “Stupid amateurs.”  
“Leo kept saying he had nothing to do with any of it.” Clyde sounds disgusted. “That he only knows this tuff because McCormick and Cartman were bragging to him about it. I don’t know _what_ I believe anymore.”  
“Leo’s just a small-fry, anyway,” Token shrugs. “Nothing but their little errand-boy; who’s _just_ smart enough not to get his hands dirty. This is one court case I bet my dad’s looking forward to." Token suddenly slaps the table, "Oh, but guess what? Tweek’s basically solved Nugget-speak!”  
“Oh, is _that_ what we’re calling it,” Clyde says. “Nice! I always _wanted_ to get something named after me!”  
“Clyde?” Jimmy pulls him into a headlock and starts rubbing the top of his head so vigorously, you’d almost think he was trying to start a fire in Clyde’s hair. “D-don’t ever change, okay?”  
“Do you _mind,_ ” Clyde grouses, but it’s totally obvious that _he_ doesn’t mind at all. “So,” he finally shakes Jimmy’s hands off and sits back up, “What’s the trick?”  
“Um,” Tweek bites his lip, “There _is_ no trick? We just agreed that I’d _tell_ him if he screws a word up? I make sure I know what he _wanted_ to say – like, if he tried to say “hand”, but it came out as, as “cheesecake”? Then I’d hold up my hand and ask him, “You meant to say this, right?” And I’ll show him a picture of cheesecake on my phone, and tell him _that’s_ what he _actually_ said.”  
“That’s p-p-pretty damn clever,” Jimmy says, grinning at Tweek. “Think he’d f-flip his shit if anybody who _isn’t_ you t-tried it?”  
“He’d _want_ you to do it,” Tweek exclaims, surprised into shouting. “Sure he’s embarrassed about it, but he wants to _fix_ it, you know?!”  
“Tweek’s right.” Clyde nods. “Craig would be _way_ more annoyed if we let that stuff slide.”  
“The resident expert has spoken,” Token drawls, then ducks as Clyde throws one long arm out, grabs the kitchen roll off the counter and throws it right at Token’s head.  
Jimmy takes this opportunity to lean in close across the table. “Henrietta’s n-not the only one who p-p-punched Cartman,” he whispers, jerking his head in Clyde’s direction. “Mm,” Tweek replies, sneaking another glance at Clyde’s hand, “Doesn’t really seem like a great idea.” It scares him a little bit, how Clyde doesn’t seem to be afraid of Cartman at all.  
“Yeah,” Jimmy agrees, like he knows exactly what Tweek is thinking.

Clyde’s the only one who ends up sticking around for dinner, even though Tweek keeps saying that his parents won’t mind. In fact, he knows just how embarrassingly happy they are that he’s suddenly _got_ all these friends. But Token’s had his chat with his mom now, and apparently she’s making his favorite-ever dessert, whatever that might be. So Token’s clearly not in trouble, not that Tweek ever really thought he would be.  
The website, which Tweek never really got a good look at, is all but done too. But Jimmy wants to go back to Token’s with him, so the two of them can put the finishing touches on it together. “It w-w-won’t go live until your p-parents have approved everything,” Jimmy assures Tweek, as he walks them out to the Prius.  
“We’ll email you the link, and then you can show them on your laptop,” Token says, leaning out of the car window. “Now get your butt back on that couch before your mom gets here!”  
“Yessir!” Tweek grins, and throws him a wobbly salute.  
When he limps back inside – it doesn’t hurt anymore, but that sandal’s just so weird to walk on – Clyde’s sitting out in the living room, perched on the armrest of the couch. Looking down at his big hands, and picking at one of the scabs.  
“I might’ve done something really stupid,” he mutters, looking up at Tweek. “I mean, I just _knew_ it was Cartman who wrote that, that crap about my dad and your mom, and…” Clyde’s voice trails off, and he looks back down. “My dad’s _really_ lonely, okay? And your mom’s really awesome. So he probably _is_ a little bit in love with her.”  
Tweek walks over and sits down on the floor, right in front of Clyde. “I wouldn’t worry about it,” he says, and stares up at his friend until Clyde gets the hint and finally meets his gaze. “Did Cartman get you anywhere?”  
Clyde grunts and sits up straighter, lifting his shirt to reveal a huge purple bruise that’s spread out across the left side of his stomach. Holy crap! Could Cartman have ruptured his kidney with a punch like that?! “My own stupid fault,” Clyde mutters, pulling a face.  
“Frozen peas,” Tweek tells him, wincing as he starts to climb to his feet, because okay, that hurts. “I’ll go get ...” his voice trails off, as his eye catches something silvery under the TV-cabinet. He shuffles over on his hands and knees, shoves his whole arm under there and gently knocks it out with the side of his finger. It lies there on the carpet, sparkling.  
“Huh,” Clyde says, and Tweek can tell he doesn’t get it yet, “Guess we didn’t find _all_ the DVD’s.”  
“Fingerprints,” Tweek says, pointing.  
Clyde leans forward, and a grin slowly spreads across his face. “Score,” he says.

Mom and Dad return just before five, with three bags of Chinese takeout _and_ Mr Donovan. “To hell with cooking today,” Dad says, tossing his keys into the lotus dish by the door. “It’s Roger’s treat, by the way. Credit where it’s due, and all that.”  
“Your guys treated us last time,” Mr Donovan says quietly. Here he is, in the home of the very woman he's accused of fooling around with. For all that it was "just" a high school newspaper, word travels fast in small town. Tweek is still stupidly glad to see him, though; glad that some shitty rumor isn't enough to make Mr Donovan stop being friends with Mom and Dad.  
“That meeting was _endless,_ ” Mom groans, and now that she’s got her parka off, Tweek can see that she swapped her T-shirt and cardigan for a white blouse and black blazer before she left the house. What she calls “parent-teacher meeting chic”. Dad may be fine with his LSD-video going public, but Mom hates for people to see those scars. She comes over to the sofa, where Tweek’s got his foot up on the backrest right by Clyde’s shoulder, and Clyde’s got his long legs stretched out on the floor, with his improvised, towel-wrapped ice-pack pressed against his stomach. “Are you boys hungry,” Mom asks; grinning as she swings the bag she’s carrying past Tweek’s head, then Clyde’s – it smells _amazing._  
“Good thing you texted me when you did,” Mr Donovan says to Clyde, who’s discreetly trying to hide the bag of frozen peas under a sofa cushion. But from his tone, Tweek can tell that what he’s really saying is; _I’m sorry._  
Tweek suddenly remembers Clyde tossing his backpack on the floor of the Prius this morning. He and his dad must've had a really big fight, for Mr Donovan to shout _“Do you want to end up like your mother,”_ at Clyde. There's probably nothing else in the _world_ that Clyde is more afraid of.  
“Yeah,” Clyde mutters, smiling cautiously up at his dad, which translates as _I’m sorry too._  
“We found fingerprints,” Tweek says, pointing over at the DVD. They talked about putting it in a sandwich bag for the police, but Clyde thought that might rub the fingerprints off it, and Tweek agreed that it wouldn’t be worth the risk.  
“What?! Holy… _moly._ ” Dad shoves his takeout bag at Mr Donovan, and doesn’t even check to make sure he’s got hold of it. He crouches to stare at the DVD, peering at the three fingerprints stamped on the shiny surface with one eye squeezed shut. Tweek can’t help but grin; it’s just so damn adorable how Dad’s trying not to swear in front of the Catholics.  
“I know for a fact that Cartman went to Juvenile Hall,” Clyde is saying, trying to hide the frozen peas behind his back while he stands up from the couch. “So the police should have his fingerprints on file, right?”  
“I’m going to call them now,” Dad says; running back out to the hallway for his mobile phone – he’s always leaving it in his coat pocket.  
“Come on, Clyde.” Mr Donovan puts his hand on the back of Clyde’s neck, steering him towards the kitchen, “Let’s go set the table.”  
Even though his foot’s practically fine now, Tweek’s not allowed to anything but sit and watch, while everyone else gets the food ready. While Mr Donovan piles egg-fried rice on each of their plates in turn, and Mom gives the glass pot from their new-old coffee maker a good scrubbing down, before she brews jasmine tea in it, to go with the Chinese food. Clyde’s digging through the cupboards and drawers for glasses and mugs and cutlery, and filling up a plastic jug that Tweek’s never seen before that has "Hendrick’s Gin" printed on the front, with water from the tap. Tweek can’t help but sit there and grin like an idiot, because it really does feel like their family got bigger.  
“Eric Cartman and Kenny McCormick are both being expelled,” Mom says, as she starts filling up the mis-matched mugs Clyde’s put out on the table. “Starting tomorrow. Not Leo Stotch, though; there was no evidence on him, and he also swears he didn’t have any part in it. I’m so glad Linda _and_ Roger made it there,” she adds, with a little shudder.  
Just then, Dad walks into the kitchen, and slips his arm around her waist. “That detective’s going to swing by on his way home for the DVD,” he says, before he gives Mom a quick kiss on the cheek. “I’m sorry Ro couldn’t make it before four-thirty, honey.”  
Mom just shrugs, and leans into the hug.  
“No wonder that Cartman boy turned out rotten,” Mr Donovan’s saying, as he starts pulling the lids off the food containers. “There’s just something… very _off_ about his mother. Do any of you want these,” he adds, holding up a pair of disposable chopsticks.  
“I’ll take them,” Dad says, pulling them out of Mr Donovan’s hand.  
“Mom used those to prop the pot-plants up,” Clyde offers, grinning as he pulls out the chair next to Tweek’s. “Back when we still had pot-plants.”  
“I should teach you guys sometime. It’s really not that hard.”  
“And Mrs McCormick showed up drunk.” Mom shudders, as she sits down on Tweek’s other side. “Or maybe she was high, I have no idea. That woman…” she shakes her head, like she’s trying to shake the memory away. “Oh, um, should we… say something? Before we eat,” Mom adds, when everyone just stares blankly at her.  
“Not on our account,” Mr Donovan assures her, and he suddenly sounds all embarrassed.  
“No, we should!” Dad holds his hands out – and up, because he’s wound up sitting on the only deck-chair. Tweek can’t help but laugh. “Come on,” Dad’s saying,” It doesn’t matter which religion it is – it all boils down to the same thing, right? Here, I’ll show you!”  
Clyde hesitantly takes Dad’s hand, and that sets off the chain reaction, until they’re all holding hands around the table, and Dad clears his throat. “If anybody’s listening,” he says, and he sounds weirdly formal all of a sudden, “I’m really grateful that the five of us get to sit here and have a meal together. There,” he adds, “That pretty much covers it, right?”  
“I think…” Mr Donovan holds up his Batman mug, and clinks it against Dad’s mug with the “R” surrounded by flowers, “That ticks all the boxes.”  
“Thanks,” Tweek says quietly, and Mom looks over at him and smiles. 

The grownups aren’t even drinking wine this time, just jasmine tea, but they still get so silly that Tweek and Clyde put their dishes in the sink and sneak upstairs to Tweek’s room when they're done eating. It’s still weirdly tidy – in part because he has fewer possessions now, after half his stuff got smashed. But it does seem higher under the ceiling now, less cramped, without all the model airplanes hanging there.  
“So who told you,” Clyde asks, as walks over to the window and looks outside, “About my mom, I mean? Token or Jimmy? I’m not mad or anything,” he adds hurriedly, turning back to Tweek. “I mean, it’s not like it’s a _secret_ that she killed herself. I can just…” Clyde shrugs, “I can tell, that you know.”  
“Jimmy just kind of mentioned it,” Tweek replies, biting his lip. “And Token told me about, about her funeral and stuff. _And_ about that time he got Craig drunk,” he adds hurriedly, eager to change topics.  
“Oh God, he told you about _that?!_ ” Clyde immediately flops down backwards on Tweeks bed, throwing one arm across his forehead like a Disney princess. Yelling, “Tweek doesn’t even know I _exist!_ ” He pulls off a really good impression of Craig’s voice, too, but Tweek isn’t buying it.  
“Oh, come _on,_ ” Tweek snorts, rolling his eyes, “Craig did not say that.”  
“Wanna bet?” Clyde’s eyes suddenly light up. “Hey – wanna ask him?”  
“Are you insane?!”  
“We _could_ try calling him, though?” Clyde holds his phone up, grinning. “It’s not even that late yet!”  
“Okay,” Tweek says, before he has a chance to change his mind. He flops down on his stomach next to Clyde, dangerously close to the edge of the bed.  
Clyde shifts over on his side to make more space, before he pulls Craig’s number from his Favourites list and switches to Loudspeaker.  
“Nugget?!” Craig picks up on the first ring, eager as a puppy.  
“Uh, hey,” Clyde manages to say, before he has to bury his face in the duvet.  
“I’m here, too,” Tweek yelps, “I mean, Clyde’s here, at my house!” Gah! He’s never ever going to have a normal phone conversation in his _life,_ is he?  
“That’s nice, babe,” Craig says, and it’s just as well how he can’t see that Clyde’s sat up and started fanning himself with his hand.  
“Babe,” Clyde whispers, while Tweek slashes his finger across his own throat. Damn, now he can feel his whole _face_ turning red!  
“So how’s… the rehab place? Are you okay to talk?”  
“Not after ten,” Craig replies. “And I have a… roommate?”  
“A roommate,” Tweek repeats, “That makes sense.”  
“Is he nice,” Clyde asks, having finally got himself back under control.  
“Yeah.” Craig sounds kind of… guarded, and Tweek gets the feeling his roommate’s probably in there with him. “Sorry, I’m not… They gave me some shells. It’s all a bit…”  
“They gave you pills,” Clyde asks, glancing over at Tweek like he wants to check that he’s doing it right.  
“Yeah. I didn’t… say that right?”  
“Nah,” Tweek tries to make it sound like it’s no big deal, “What you said is, um, it’s really small and flat, and lives in the ocean? But what you meant was medicine, right?”  
“Mm. Yeah, I got a… I got really warm.”  
“You got a fever? From the trip to Denver?”  
“Probably,” Craig replies cautiously. Like maybe it’s okay to mess up talking when it’s only him and Tweek, but it’s a whole other ballgame with Clyde and the mysterious new roommate listening in.  
“Or maybe it’s cooties,” Clyde suggests helpfully, “From making out with Kenny McCormick?”  
“Nugget, I swear,” Craig snaps, and he sounds so much more awake, and like his old self, that Tweek can’t help but let out one long, awful snort. “That isn’t funny! He tasted gross!”  
“Duh-define gross,” Clyde begs, clutching his stomach. “Like, toilet water gross? Or, or beetroot and kale juice gross?”  
“Shut up, Nugget,” Craig growls, which has the unfortunate effect of making both Tweek and Clyde double up and howl with synchronized laughter.  
Clyde jumps off the bed and picks his phone up, before he runs down the stairs, shouting, “Dad, Dad!”  
Tweek runs after him, but his foot’s starting to sting a little, not to mention it’s not easy to run while you’re also laughing yourself to death.  
“Clyde, what’s wrong?” Mr Donovan looks all confused as he comes out of the kitchen, blinking behind his glasses.  
“Nothing’s wrong,” Clyde says, holding his phone up between them, like he wants to make sure Craig will hear everything. “But I just figured out what I want for my Christmas present! Can we legally change my name to Nugget?”  
“Clyde,” Mr Donovan snaps, “Stop giving Craig shit.”  
Tweek just gives up; he sits right down in the middle of the staircase, and laughs until tears start rolling down his face.  
On the other end of the phone, Craig starts swearing, which he seems to remember how to do. It’s like… word sequences, isn’t it, Tweek suddenly realizes. If Craig’s used to saying things in a certain order, like a writer’s name, or the title of a book, then it’ll just… come out, all in one piece. That feels important, like a clue. Not to mention, will Craig always use the _same_ words when he gets it wrong? Like Nugget instead of Clyde’s name, grass instead of covers, halogen bulbs instead of lemon bars? Or will some of them vary? It feels like a solution is hovering just at the corner of his mind, but that’s when Clyde comes over and shoves his phone into Tweek’s hand.  
“I’m passing you over to your _babe_ now,” Clyde says, and he looks very pleased with himself when Craig immediately goes all quiet.  
“Uh,” Tweek says, frantically digging through his mind for something to say, “McCormick’s getting expelled. Cartman, too, but I don’t know for how long. And I still miss you,” he adds. “I miss you like crazy.”  
“I miss you crazier,” Craig drawls, and Tweek’s heart does a little jump inside his chest.  
“Don’t be mad at Clyde, okay?” He can tell Craig about the newspaper and the missing goodbye letters and all the rest of it tomorrow, he decides, as he tucks his knees up under his chin and wraps his other arm around his legs. “You know he’s only messing with you.”  
Craig sighs. “I’m not mad, babe.”  
Clyde grins down at him, shaking his head like he can’t believe what he’s hearing, before he goes downstairs to join the grownups in the kitchen.  
“So what’s the food like, over there?”  
“It’s okay? I guess. And I don’t miss Thor.”  
Tweek blinks. “Thor? Who’s Thor?”  
Craig clicks his tongue at him, all impatient, “You know, with the… beard?”  
“Beard?” Tweek suddenly gets it. “That nurse, you mean? With the shovel beard, and the man-bun? But, but he was really nice?”  
“He went around… like he thought he was Thor,” Craig growls, and Tweek feels himself start to smile.  
“Dude. You got jealous, didn’t you?”  
“You talked to him… an awful lot.”  
“Um, yeah, because he works there? Nurse Jonathan’s totally not my type.”  
“So how come… you remember his, his name? Is that right?”  
“Yeah, his name, you got that one right, Craig…”  
Tweek curls up on the staircase, his hands wrapped around the phone, around Craig’s voice, like an oyster wrapped around a pearl. He wants to stay like this forever.


	27. A potent stress cocktail

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMIGOD you guys, 3000 hits?! Thank you so much for supporting this fic! AND we have more fanart, check out this beauty, because I am in awe:
> 
> https://prkdl.tumblr.com/post/185752543402/favorite-scenes-from-ghosting-for-beginners-by 
> 
> So, the school paper doing a weekly edition is a not-so-subtle homage to the South Park team making an episode in a week. It's probably the most amazing adrenaline thrill ride, except when you're up at four am the night before the episode airs, I guess? 
> 
> Also, I always pictured that Tweak Bros has its own crew of regulars, who are just as "irregular" as the people who run it...

Tuesday gets off to a _great_ start, when Jimmy and Clyde aren’t waiting outside the Valmers’ house to be picked up. Token drives a little bit further down the road, where Tweek can see them standing outside Clyde’s front door. Mr Donovan’s there too, on his phone. Jimmy’s busy taking photos of something, while Clyde’s got a steadying hand on his shoulder, making sure Jimmy doesn’t tip backwards down the front steps.  
“What the hell,” Token mutters, as he kills the engine and swings the door open.  
“Oh, hey,” Clyde says, turning his head, with a stiff, uncomfortable grin. “Someone, ah, must’ve nailed this thing to our door last night.”  
Tweek gingery steps out of the car – the cut has more or less closed off overnight, so Dad helped him tape four of those extra-large plasters in a row over it before he left the house. Just so he could leave the bandage off and wear his normal shoes to school, instead of Mom’s horrible new Crocks – they were the only shoes that fit over the damn thing. He still needs to walk carefully, though, so Tweek gets to the Donovans’ door way after Token has smacked his fist into his palm and started swearing.  
Oh. Turns out “this thing” is a dead rat. Tweek’s never realized rats could get quite so big. The fur is black and silky, matted with blood, and the neck’s been twisted. Maybe it died in a trap? There’s a blunt snout covered in bristly white whiskers poking out every which way. Thankfully, the mouth is closed, so you can’t see any teeth. But those pink paws, they almost look like they have fingers, not claws. They look like little baby hands. And the smell is… intense, and there are little flies everywhere, hovering above the corpse, even though it’s so cold out. The limbs are splayed out, and several nails have been driven through each leg, but the flesh is starting to sag over them, threatening to tear…  
Tweek hears a sound, much like a burp, coming out of his own mouth, and twists his head around just in time. Pukes into the flowerbed instead, spraying the poor little evergreens with the half-digested oatmeal he had for breakfast. Dyed a fleshy pink thanks to hydrochloric acid, and smelling almost as rancid as that poor dead animal up there. Tasting of sour bile _and_ of coffee, which somehow makes it even worse.  
“Tweek,” Clyde yells, “Are you okay?” It’s almost funny; that question obviously popped out of his mouth by rote. Tweek is very clearly not okay. He’d laugh if he wasn’t so busy retching.  
“Just stay right there,” Token is saying, “I’ll get you some water!” He disappears, shoes crunching on the gravel in the driveway.  
“S-sorry,” Tweek finally manages to say, drawing a shaky breath. At least that was probably it for the contents of his stomach. “Sorry about…” Good thing it’s early; Tweek’s never all that hungry in the morning. When he was little, Mom would have to stand over him to make sure he ate, and didn’t just hide the sandwich she’d made him in one of the kitchen drawers.  
“F-feeling b-better now, Tweek?” Jimmy is ducking his head so he can look Tweek in the eyes, smiling even though he’s clearly worried.  
Tweek just about manages a nod in response.  
“Don’t worry about the bushes,” Mr Donovan is saying, and Tweek looks up in time to see him shoving his phone into his coat pocket. “I’ll hose them down while I wait for the police.”  
“I _told_ you,” Clyde suddenly speaks up, “If I stay, you can go open the sh– ”  
“Not on your _life,_ ” Mr Donovan snaps, and Tweek doesn’t think he’s ever seen him act so strict. “You’re not going to miss out on your schooling over…” He waves his hand in the general direction of the dead rat, which makes Tweek look at it again. Oh no. “Over _that,_ ” Mr Donovan says, as Tweek turns back towards the flower bed and vomits some more. At least he manages to aim it at the ground, this time.  
“Ugh, _fine,_ ” Clyde groans.  
“Here.” A bottle of Evian is suddenly dangled in front of his face, and Tweek grabs it eagerly. Rinses his mouth out first, spitting on the sidewalk, before he has a long sip. “You think you might’ve thrown up your Xanax, too?”  
“Probably,” Tweek replies, raising the bottle and giving Token a shaky smile. “Thanks.”  
“Sure,” Token says, slipping an arm around Tweek’s shoulder. “You need to go back home?”  
“Nah,” Tweek mutters, slumping into Token’s side. He’s feeling light-headed, but Token is reassuringly solid, and ideal for leaning against.  
“Are you two thinking w-w-what I’m thinking?”  
“Cartman,” Tweek asks, looking up at Jimmy’s face. It’s kind of pathetic, now that he thinks about it – nobody _else_ had to throw up. Just him.  
“Cartman’s always had it in for Clyde,” Token replies, frowning.  
“Why,” Tweek asks, making Token and Jimmy exchange an unreadable glance.  
“F-f-fatboy’s jealous,” Jimmy says, nodding sagely.  
Tweek blinks. “Of him dating Bebe,” he asks quietly, since Clyde and his dad are standing right over there.  
That actually makes Token laugh. “Of _everything,_ ” he says. “Think about it; Clyde’s on the football team. Girls love him. In between dating Bebe, he’s dated…” Token frowns, as he runs some mental calculus, “Roughly seventy-five percent of the girls in our class. And Cartmant’s, well…” Token shrugs, “Cartman.”  
Tweek laughs weakly, his throat still sore from all that puking.  
“Uh, Tweek,” Mr Donovan is saying, “Could I ask you to come look at something before you boys go? But only if you feel well enough,” he adds hurriedly. “It’s just, there’s this handwriting…”  
“Sure,” Tweek says, and staggers over.  
“This, ah, came off when I first opened the door.” Mr Donovan holds out something round and flat. “Here, you don’t need to look at the rat at all.”  
Tweek realizes that what he’s holding is a Tweak Bros coaster. Thankfully, there’s no blood on it, but there _is_ a little hole; roughly in the middle. A long tear that runs all the way from the hole to one of the edges, where it was obviously ripped right off the door. The front of their coasters has the Tweak Bros logo with its little tilted coffee cup, printed on a dark green background. But the back of the coasters has always just been plain white. That’s cheaper than double-sided printing, and Dad likes to save money where he can. On the back, someone has written; _Keep your fingers off my wife, you sweaty four-eyes!_  
“That’s, that’s…” Tweek’s vision is starting to go blurry, and he’s suddenly hyper-conscious of the sound of his own rapid breathing. When he closes his eyes, all he can see is last night’s dinner. Chinese food spread out over mismatched plates, jasmine tea in the coffee pot, and Dad sitting in that deckchair, holding his hands out. _If anybody’s listening, I’m really grateful…_  
“ _Not_ your dad’s handwriting – right?” Clyde is saying, as he shakes Tweek’s shoulder. “Dude, you don’t think we’d actually _believe_ your dad did this?”  
“B-Buddhism forbids the taking of a life.” Tweek mutters, as his hand tightens around the coaster, crumpling it.  
“Give me that, okay?” Clyde gently pries Tweek’s fingers loose, and passes the coaster back to Mr Donovan. “I’m pretty sure that counts as evidence.” Then, without any warning whatsoever, Clyde hugs Tweek tight. “Don’t freak out on us now. Please, Tweek?”  
Tweek just about manages to nod; the relief is making his head spin. “Dad writing is _nice,_ ” he mutters, burrowing his face into the front of Clyde’s jacket.  
“C-Cartman wrote this, f-f-for sure,” Jimmy declares.  
“ _And_ this is exactly the sort of shit Cartman would pull,” Token agrees. “He’s probably hoping to turn your families against each other. Divide and conquer, you know?”  
“Well,” Mr Donovan is saying brightly, “Fat chance of that! I’m going to give your dad a call right now, Tweek, and we’ll probably have a good laugh about all this.”  
Tweek kinds of doubts that Dad will find this funny; since it involves a dead animal and all. Dad has very strong feelings about dead animals.  
“We’d better go.” Clyde lets go of Tweek so he can pick his backpack up off the ground. “If I _am_ going to school, Eric Cartman does _not_ get to make me late.”  
“C-come on,” Jimmy’s saying, nudging Tweek with his shoulder as he goes past him, down to the car, and starts the laborious process of getting inside.  
In the backseat, Tweek makes sure he’s properly buckled in before he pulls the Xanax out of his bag. His hands are trembling something fierce. “Um,” he says, holding his tube of pills out to Clyde, “Would you mind? I’m just afraid they’ll go everywhere.”  
“That’d make for some expensive confetti,” Clyde agrees, as he takes the tube and carefully uncorks it. “Here, put your palm out flat, and I’ll give you just one, okay?”  
“Okay,” Tweek says, holding out his hand. “Thanks.”  
“I b-bet Cartman’s jealous of your dad, Clyde,” Jimmy says, turning sideways so he can talk to them in the back seat. “Cartman’s n-never even m-met _his_ dad, but _your_ dad scores pretty d-d-damn high on the AD m-meter.”  
“What,” Tweek barks, so shocked that his voice cracks, “ _Your dad_ has ADHD?!”  
“Dude, no,” Clyde exclaims, as he doubles over laughing.  
“It’s this thing Craig came up with,” Token explains, “When we were nine, I think? You’d rank everyone’s dads on the Awesome Dad o-meter.”  
“Seriously?” It’s really not something Tweek can picture Craig doing, but Clyde and Jimmy are both nodding.  
“He kept the scores in a notebook,” Clyde says, then looks up at the Prius’ ceiling, clearly looking for a word, “Very…”  
“M-methodical of him,” Jimmy fills in. “Hey so, maybe we shouldn’t m-m-mention the rat to Craig?”  
“No point,” Clyde agrees, shaking his head firmly. “He’ll just get pissed that there’s nothing he can do about it.”  
Tweek’s not entirely sure if he agrees, but he figures Clyde does get the final vote, since it was _his_ front door, so he nods.  
“Sweaty four-eyes,” Token mutters, and it’s such a cruelly accurate impersonation of Cartman that Tweek and the other two can’t help but laugh. 

_Dear Craig,_ Tweek writes; then stops to chew on the end of his BIC pen for a second. _Sorry if it seems stupid, writing you a letter when we can talk on the phone every night. There’s just so much stuff I forget to say, as soon as I hear your voice. So in a way, me writing you this letter is your own fault._  
Huh. He looks down on the page, unimpressed with everything – his shitty, spiky handwriting, the stupid stuff he’s gone and said; even the coffee shop’s boring letterhead with the Tweak Bros logo and the shop address printed right at the top of the page. It’s all just so… lame, even the pen he’s writing with is lame! It has a tendency to leave little blobs of ink behind, like tiny turds made of ink.  
Gah! He looks up, and out across the shop floor, from his vantage point at the back table. Tweek is _supposed_ to be done with his homework before Token gets here, from the student council meeting he stayed behind at school to attend. Mom’s even threatened to look it over before he leaves, though she’s possibly even _worse_ at maths than Tweek is.  
_Last night, Clyde and I found a DVD that had some fingerprints on it,_ he writes, _and someone from the police called Dad back today. They’d found a match and the prints were Cartman’s, but I bet that doesn’t surprise you at all? Plus this morning, Mr Donovan reported Cartman to the police because he –_  
Tweek closes his eyes for a second. Should he really tell Craig about this morning, and risk stressing him out? Clyde and Token have both been saying to leave Craig out of this; but Token’s not the only one who hates being left out. _I’m your boyfriend, aren’t I?_  
Before he can change his mind, Tweek puts pen to paper again.  
_– nailed a dead rat to their front door in the middle of the night. At least I hope it was dead when he did it. Poor thing. Cartman was stupid enough to leave behind a note in his own handwriting, to try and frame my dad. So now the police are bringing Cartman in for questioning, as soon as they can find him, that is._  
Tweek lets his gaze slide across the shop floor as he thinks about what to write next. Those two Instagram ladies are back; one of them is very seriously positioning a little ceramic spoon she’s brought along – it’s white, with some kind of black pattern on the handle – on the little saucer underneath her cup. What would she say; if Tweek walked over there and told her that fruit scone she’s about to take four hundred photos of came from Costco? Ah, impulse control; impulse control. Over the loudspeakers, Julia London is singing, “I don’t know why, I made you cry…”  
Suddenly, the bell dings, and Mr Henderson walks in, with his sunglasses and white cane. Ah, right! Mr Henderson’s perfect to write about! Mom runs over to greet him as usual, winding her arm through Mr Henderson’s and guiding him over to the till; giggling at something he’s said.  
_One of our regulars just came into the shop,_ Tweek writes, feeling a bit like a reporter now that he’s jotting it all down in real-time, _This old blind guy who really likes my mom – like, I’m 100% sure it’s not because our coffee’s good, that he keeps coming back._ Ugh, is that even a sentence?! But the page would look even uglier if he starts crossing things out, so Tweek just keeps writing, as he hears Mr Henderson say his usual line. _He’s just done this thing he always does, where he takes Mom’s hand to check if her wedding ring’s still there. And now he’s saying “So you’re still married to that idiot, Helen,” and my dad’s puffing himself up behind the counter._  
“Yes she is,” Tweek hears Dad say, with a tone that’s dancing on the edge between “polite-but-huffy” and glaringly passive-aggressive, “And I’m right here, by the way!”  
“I didn’t mean to ever be mean, to you…” Julia London whispers from just above Tweek’s head, where one of the speakers is mounted, which matches the situation so badly, but so perfectly at the same time, that Tweek has to hide his head in his arms for a few moments, just to stifle his deranged giggling.  
_I think Mr Henderson must be lonely, though,_ Tweek writes; then stops to watch, tapping the BIC against his lips, as Mom guides Mr Henderson to the table right behind the two instagrammers. He can’t quite catch what Mr Henderson’s says next, but whatever it is, it sets Mom off again. She’s tipping her head back with one hand on her chest, as a very unladylike belly-laugh comes rolling out of her mouth. _That’s probably why Mom puts up with all his old-man flirting,_ Tweek writes, bending back over the paper. _This year, for April Fool’s, Mr Henderson happened to come into the shop. And as soon as Mom saw him, she switched her wedding ring over on her right hand. The look on his face when he took Mom’s hand and didn’t find it!!_ Tweek remembers that look all right, so incredulous and hopeful that he’d felt bad; when Mom started saying she was divorcing “that idiot” and Dad stuffed his whole hand into his mouth, committing a blatant food hygiene violation, just so he wouldn’t give the game away by laughing. _I’m glad he thought it was funny, though, when Mom let him hold her other hand and said “April Fool’s”! I got him a free slice of Tiramisu, since Mr Henderson’s such a regular that we all know what he likes, and I’m sure that didn’t hurt either. But you were there when she invented a fake sister for me,_ Tweek goes on, _So you know my mom can be kind of nuts._  
Some sixth, Pavlovian sense makes Tweek look up, just as a navy-blue Prius pulls up by the kerb outside Tweak Bros. Token’s here! _Anyway, I have to go now,_ he quickly scrawls down, _but remember: I love you CRAZIER._ Then he signs his name and shoves the whole thing into the envelope sitting on top of his textbooks, and licks it shut before he can change his mind.  
“I’m off,” he yells, putting his arm flat on the table and just shovelling all his books and papers into his new backpack, before he tips the last few mouthfuls of his unsweetened cappuccino down his throat. Slips the backpack over one shoulder and goes past Mr Henderson’s table to give Mom a quick hug goodbye – who cares if people see him, they’ve only got four customers here anyway!  
“Bye, Mom,” he says, slipping one arm around Mom’s waist and giving her a super-fast kiss on the cheek, too.  
“Tweek!” Mom’s so startled that she laughs, before she hugs him back.  
A bony hand closes around Tweek’s wrist, and he yelps before he can stop himself. “Young man,” Mr Henderson says, and his friendly features are suddenly very stern, “Don’t make your poor mother worry about you.”  
Wow. That suicide attempt really _was_ the talk of the town, huh? Or maybe Mom was the one who told Mr Henderson about it, after Tweek got sectioned? On a quiet day; when she’d had nothing to do but stack mugs and fret?  
“Don’t worry, sir,” Tweek says firmly, and saying it out loud only confirms what he knows to be true, “That’ll never happen again.”  
“Good,” Mr Henderson says, releasing his grip. Tweek immediately runs over to put the mug over the back of the counter on his way out. No time to waste. “Bye Dad,” he adds, tossing the words over his shoulder, before he runs out the door, the shop bell jingling behind him. Maybe Token won’t mind, if they stop off at the post-office. 

Clyde gets half of Wednesday off school, so he can have his CAT-scan in Denver; fast-tracked because of his “family history”. Mr Donovan goes with him, leaving his shoe-store in the hands of two of his more reliable college kids. Henrietta offered to pull a sickie, but of course Mr Donovan wouldn’t hear of it.  
So there’s no Clyde waiting outside the Valmers’ house the next morning, only a very tired Jimmy. Tweek has to bite down hard on his lip, so he doesn’t offer to help Jimmy get in the car.  
“Couldn’t sleep,” he asks, bopping nervously up and down on the back seat while Jimmy sluggishly clambers inside.  
“Tell me you weren’t up watching stupid shit on YouTube,” Token says, as casually as he can manage, while his fingers drum on the steering-wheel. He’s totally itching to just grab Jimmy’s arm and yank him inside; Tweek can tell.  
“No,” Jimmy replies wearily, tucking his crutches into their usual space alongside the door, “I had o-one of those seventh s-s-sense things?”  
“Uh?” Tweek looks at him in the mirror, and almost takes a sip of his triple shot flat white, before he offers it to Jimmy instead. “Here, maybe you need this more than I do?”  
Jimmy takes one sip, and immediately chokes on it, muttering, “Jesus!” He gets it down somehow, though, without spraying the dashboard with coffee. “What I meant,” he says, handing Tweek his travel mug back, “Was that I w-woke up at f-four am, like, b-bang,” Jimmy snaps his fingers, “W-with this f-f-feeling that something was wrong. I g-got out of bed, went to the w-window, and there was Clyde. On our f-front lawn, in his b-boxers, with no shoes or sh-sh-shirt on.”  
“Goddamn it,” Token snaps, and slaps the steering wheel with the flat of his hand. “Clyde hasn’t been sleepwalking since his _mom_ died,” he explains to Tweek, so worried that he sounds outright furious. “Craig and I took turns staying over a couple times back then, but he used to scream in his sleep too; and… and we were _nine_.” Token shrugs, like he’s still embarrassed that he couldn’t help. “It got so bad; Mr Donovan installed this tripwire thing by the front door? This super thin thread that made a bell ring, to wake him up so he could stop Clyde from wandering off.”  
“I w-woke my parents up,” Jimmy says, while Tweek hugs himself tight, pressing his travel mug against his chest. “They g-got him inside, and then he _finally_ w-woke up, all c-c-confused.”  
“You think it was the rat,” Tweek asks cautiously.  
“The rat _and_ the CAT-scan, probably,” Token replies, “Maybe throw in McCormick showing up in Craig’s room with a knife, and that shit Cartman wrote about his dad.”  
“M-makes for a p-p-potent stress cocktail,” Jimmy agrees. “So my dad called Clyde’s d-dad, who c-came over and got him. But after that…” Jimmy shrugs, “I just c-c-couldn’t sleep at all.”  
“Nurse’s office for first period,” Token suggests cautiously.  
“M-maybe,” Jimmy mutters, slumping against the window.  
Tweek tips his head back against the neck-rest, squeezing his eyes closed. _Why_ can’t things just turn out okay for once? Is that really too much to ask, of, of God, or Buddha, or _whoever_ is out there?!

Since Clyde’s examination was set for eight-thirty in the morning, and his dad seems to have felt that some sort of reward was required, he even promised Clyde that they’d visit Craig as soon as the CAT scan’s was done. That’s why Tweek snuck back into the storage room with Token after school yesterday; using Jimmy’s key, to “liberate” that old moon globe Craig took such a shine to. They wrapped it up in Tweak Bros towels and one of Token’s cashmere sweaters; a dark grey one that’s as soft as petting a puppy. The whole bundle fit inside Tweek’s old backpack, which he told Clyde to just throw out afterwards. He’s got a nice new backpack now, after all.  
First and second period pass at a crawl, and even Token gets called out by the teacher for not paying attention during Math. They’ve all been in touch with Craig, of course, over the past couple of days; but no amount of text messages or phone-calls can make up for not actually _being there._  
By the time Clyde arrives, with a half-eaten Subway sticking out of his backpack; two thirds of their lunch break is already over. Tweek’s been hunched over their usual table with Token and Jimmy, reading and re-reading the text he got from Craig forty minutes ago: _Thanks for the presents, babe! I can’t believe you stole that globe for me. Our room is 1000% cooler now._ Completely without any errors, so maybe the mysterious roommate proofread it for him? Presents, though – presents, _plural_. Did Token give Clyde something else for Craig, or did he just assume Token’s sweater was for him to keep?  
“Clyde,” Token suddenly says, cutting Jimmy off mid-sentence and smacking Tweek on the arm.  
Clyde’s running down the length of the cafeteria, with a huge grin on his face. “Craig’s so much better,” he yells, dumping his backpack on the table, before he slumps into the seat next to Tweek’s. “That hole in his throat? It closed up completely! Like, every now and then, his voice sort of blips out a little bit? But it’s _practically_ back to normal!”  
Other classmates start slinking over to their table, eager for news. Bebe and Nicole are suddenly there, with a whole _delegation_ of girls. Scott and Kevin come around too; Scott even pulls up a seat. Kevin’s holding hands with Red from their class – _that’s_ who he’s dating? – and even Kyle sidles up next to Token, with Stan Marsh trailing behind him. Leo Stotch hovers at the very edge of the group; like he’s not sure if he’d get chased away, should he come any closer. He’s been hanging around Kyle and Marsh, now that Cartman’s not allowed back in school. Technically, neither is McCormick – but then, he was already in police custody when the school made that decision. There are rumours floating around that he’s not even in Juvie, but that he’s been sectioned, locked up at Denver Psychiatric.  
“That’s great,” Bebe says, slipping under Clyde’s arm so she can perch on his lap, while everyone else is muttering and nodding.  
“Oh, and Craig showed me around the place,” Clyde says, pausing to nuzzle Bebe’s hair for a second. “He can walk around without help for longer too; but he does this… thing? He’ll look around, and sort of plan where to go? Based on where there’s a windowsill or wall he can grab.”  
“You mean, like when babies learn to walk,” Token asks, and Clyde nods eagerly.  
“Yeah, exactly like that!” Clyde yanks out his Subway one-handed, his other arm wrapped firmly around Bebe’s waist. “I call it “Strategic Walking”. Like Nordic Walking; you know, but without the ski sticks?”  
“I b-bet Craig just loved that,” Jimmy drawls, earning a huge grin from Clyde.  
“Oh, totally! He threatened to punch me like, five times! And he showed me this swimming pool they have, with treadmills and exercise bikes in there. He said they do a lot of physical therapy in the water.” Clyde snorts. “But he totally can’t say “swimming pool” anymore.”  
“So… what does he say instead,” Kyle asks, like he’s almost afraid of the answer.  
“Mustard,” Clyde tells him, nodding sagely, before he takes another bite of his sandwich. “I kept showing him a picture of Heinz Mustard on my phone, going, “No dude, _this_ is what you’re saying,” and Craig kept swearing. It was so cute.”  
“If you say so,” Kyle mutters, exchanging an unreadable look with Stan Marsh.  
“And Craig’s roommate is _really_ nice,” Clyde goes on, talking with his mouth full as he pulls out a big wad of Tweak Bros towels and puts them down in front of Tweek’s plate. “But the poor guy’s name is Michael Jackson – Jackson’s his _middle_ name!”  
“W-what,” Jimmy asks, eyes shining, “As in, M-Michael Jackson J-Johnson?”  
“Hill, actually,” Clyde corrects him, “But yeah. His dad’s a fan, apparently. Oh, and here’s your sweater, dude,” he adds, passing the grey cashmere sweater across the table to Token.  
“ _Men,_ ” Nicole snorts, shaking her head in disgust.  
“Yeah, I was all, “I can’t _wait_ for you to meet my friend Tweek Tweak”, and then Craig went all red in the face...”  
“So what was the second present,” Tweek interrupts him hurriedly, “I mean, aside from you-know-what? I thought _he_ thought Token’s sweater was for him,” he adds, jerking his head at Exhibit A, which Token is folding up and stuffing into his backpack.  
“Oh yeah, I meant to say! Craig kept your old backpack! I told him you’d said to just toss it, but he kept saying “This was Tweek’s!” Like it was some kinda sacred relic or something! I was all, “Dude, I’m pretty sure it doesn’t _smell_ like him,” and Craig got so pissed!”  
“I b-bet as soon as you’d left, Craig was all…” Jimmy buries his face in his satchel, and gives it a long, drawn out sniff before he lifts his head back up and goes “Ahhh!”  
Tweek can’t help but laugh along with everybody else, even though he’s blushing like crazy. 

That afternoon, the school newspaper committee has a meeting, with Tweek _and_ Wendy Testaburger in attendance. “Our special guest stars”, as Jimmy puts it, which makes Wendy close her eyes and sigh. Tweek’s tagged along to fact-check the interview with his parents that Jimmy’s transcribed, off the forty-minute interview Token taped with them yesterday, and then spent half the night editing down. But Wendy’s here on behalf of the Student Council, where she’s currently serving as Vice President, with a pink plastic folder placed neatly in front of her.  
“Apparently, our class has the worst record of bullying and homophobia in the entire school,” Wendy begins, as she looks across the assembled desks and directly at Jimmy. “Which is saying _something,_ since Michael in Senior year once got thrown out of a _window_ for being gay.” The serious look on her face is somewhat undermined by the fact that she’s attending this meeting in full cheerleading attire; apparently she’s just going to toss on the long coat she’s draped over her chair and run down to join the rest of her squad as soon as they’re done here.  
“Jesus,” Red mutters, reaching up to tuck her hair behind her ear. Tweek remembers when Red used to keep her hair almost as short as Mom’s. But it’s grown really long now, spilling down her back and almost to her hips. “So does the student council want us to run some kind of feature on that…?”  
“To be honest,” Wendy sighs, “We’re kind of at the brainstorming stage right now. But if you’re going to keep printing weekly,” she opens the top folder, and pulls out a single page, “I was hoping you could run this?”  
That page gets passed around the table, and even Tweek gets to have a look. It’s an ad, essentially, for a contest run by the student council. They’re offering to fund a project that’ll “promote understanding and negate homophobia”, which Tweek thinks is a hilariously tall order. The bottom of the page has a little form you can fill in, with a big white space dedicated to describing the project you’re proposing. Due by next Friday; November 14th.  
“I don’t see why w-we can’t run this,” Jimmy says, when the page has gone all the way around the table. “B-but that means we’ll need to c-c-continue p-printing weekly for at least the next t-two weeks.” Jimmy looks at each school paper member in turn. “I know I’m asking a lot, n-now that we’ve also got a w-w-website, and our photographer’s out of the p-picture…” He pauses, raising first one eyebrow, then the other, and finally groaning, “Come _on,_ that w-was totally funny.”  
“That was _painful,_ ” Red says, but there _is_ a smile tugging at the side of her mouth. “I say we keep going. I mean, we’ve got more crazy shit to cover than ever! Craig waking up, the Tweak burglary, yesterday’s rat attack on the Donovans…”  
“Not to _mention_ you’ll want to set the record straight on what you did and _didn’t_ publish,” Wendy adds, “Right?”  
“Isn’t that what the website’s for,” Tweek asks timidly, speaking up for the first time, even though he’s not sure he’s supposed to.  
An Asian boy Tweek doesn’t recognize – he’s older, with round John Lennon glasses and a black T-shirt that’s got the ATARI logo on it – shakes his head. “Dude, there’s so much more we can do with that site! Like, if we run it in tandem with the paper, we can tape interviews and put them up! Like the one with your parents, right? And then end the article we _print_ with “see the whole thing on our website”!”  
“Are you v-v-volunteering for this, Dean,” Jimmy asks, with a gleam in his eye that makes all the other newspaper kids lean back in their seats and go “Oooh!”  
“Well, duh,” Dean says, like he knew this would happen the moment he opened his mouth. “It’s the ideal way to keep the page count down if we wanna keep doing weekly, which I totally _love,_ by the way. _Or_ we can use it between editions, if we have to slow down and go monthly again.”  
“This past month has been a _ride,_ ” a familiar looking girl with a pierced lip says, and Tweek gives a start when he recognizes her. This girl picked his small change up off the floor for him, on his first day back at school! “I’m all for keeping shit weekly.”  
More and more hands go up, as all seven remaining members of the school paper vote in favour of weekly print. The excitement is like a palpable thing, like an electric current running through the air.  
“Well in that case,” Wendy Testaburger gets to her feet, gathering her plastic folder up with one hand while she’s pulling her coat on with the other, “I’ll leave you all to it. Thanks, guys!”  
“Um,” one of the other boys says, as the door closes behind Wendy, “Did any of you guys check out the small print?” He’s tall and thin like Kevin Stoley, but he’s made the strange decision to dye his hair in various shades of green and blue. He’s holding up Wendy’s print-out, tapping the text at the very bottom with his fingertip. “All entries to be sent to the school paper’s office, care of J. Valmer. Says right here,” he adds, when Red groans and smacks the table, and Jimmy leans his head in his hands and laughs.  
“She g-got us,” Jimmy groans, shaking his head from side to side. “When it c-comes to v-v-volunteering people, Wendy’s knocks _me_ out of the b-b-ballpark. Okay, let’s get to w-work, everybody!” He grabs his crutches and gets to his feet, jerking his head over at one of the ancient PC’s. “Tweek, I’ll g-get you set up over here.”  
Okay, here goes… Tweek, who’s still sitting down, draws a deep breath through his nose, and says, “I’d, uh, I’d like to stick around for a bit afterwards? If you guys don’t mind?”  
“Mi newsroom es t-tu n-newsroom,” Jimmy says, with big grin and a magnanimous shrug.  
“I just…” Tweek only realizes that his right hand has climbed up into his hair and started tugging when Jimmy leans one crutch against the table, snaps his fingers and points right at him. “Right. Sorry, I’ll…” He pulls his fingers free with an effort, and forces himself to fold his hands on the table-top instead. All of a sudden, they’re shaking like crazy. “I was just wondering if _I_ could help out? I mean – gnk – just until Craig gets back? If, if that’s okay with…” Tweek forces himself to look around, at all their frozen, surprised faces. Even Jimmy looks shocked. “I can take photos? I can do anything you guys don’t want to! I can sort all the entries for Wendy’s contest, and I can make the coffee, and… It just looks like so much fun,” he finishes, with the world’s lamest little shrug, before he bites down hard on his lip.  
“Are you kidding,” Red says, after a long, drawn-out silence. “Do you have _any_ idea how hard it is, finding people who _want_ to be on the paper?!”  
“I’m g-gonna lock you in this room and n-n-never let you see the s-sun again,” Jimmy says, grinning from ear to ear. “W-Welcome on b-board, Tweek!” 

“Hey babe,” Craig whispers, when Tweek calls him that night from their landline, on the upstairs cordless phone. His phone battery is at 3% and he’s not too sure where the charger is, but after his initial, suspicious “Hello?” Craig doesn’t seem to mind one bit. “I got your letter,” he says, and to Tweek’s relief, he sounds really happy about it.  
“So you didn’t think it was lame? Writing you a letter, I mean?” Tweek snuggles in deeper under his duvet, tugging Bebe’s heart cushion down with him, until it’s positioned _just_ right around his neck. When he puts the hands on his shoulders and closes his eyes, he can almost imagine that Craig’s there, hugging him from behind.  
“Are you _kidding_ me,” Craig hisses, and Tweek wonders if his roommate’s already asleep, if that’s why Craig’s trying to be so quiet. “I loved it! I …” suddenly, Craig’s voice blips out, the way Clyde was talking about at lunch. But it’s back online, so to say, almost immediately, “…write you one back, if you … mind some stuff being wrong?”  
“You _know_ I don’t,” Tweek tells him hurriedly, while he pulls the covers all the way over his head. “If you write it tomorrow morning, maybe I’ll even _get_ it before I come see you Friday night,” he adds, and he can feel himself starting to shake with excitement. A letter from Craig, holy crap!  
Craig laughs, very quietly. “I was writing it when you called.” Just from his tone, Tweek can totally tell that he’s smiling.  
Tweek grins, in the darkness under the duvet. “You’re such a good boyfriend.”  
“I think it made that old guy happy,” Craig says, and it takes Tweek a moment to realize he’s talking about the letter. About Mr Henderson and April Fool’s Day. “You know, that your cornflakes weren’t, like, scared to joke around with him.”  
“My parents,” Tweek automatically corrects him. “What you said was, was something you eat for breakfast, and it’s crunchy?”  
“Goddamn it,” Craig hisses, “I got that one right before! I think?”  
“Maybe you’re right, though,” Tweek muses, “About Mr Henderson, I mean. He did laugh for an awful long time.”  
“It’s like when Nugget came over, he wasn’t scared to make fun of me, you know? And that, that _helps,_ ” Craig says, his voice suddenly going all fierce.  
“I _think_ I get it,” Tweek replies. “It’s like, when I came out of hospital, and everyone was acting like, like I’d try it _again,_ if even the smallest thing went wrong. And then you just showed up and talked to me, like there was nothing wrong with me at all.”  
“Mm,” Craig says, “You _do_ get it, babe. But listen – there’s _nothing_ wrong with you.”


	28. Polar Stampede

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Polar Stampede is the name of a painting by Lee Krasner, painted in her husband's studio a few weeks after he died, drunk-driving with his mistress and her friend in his car. She painted it in the middle of the night because, for obvious reasons, she was having trouble sleeping. The canvas is huge, and it looks like this:
> 
> https://www.sfmoma.org/artwork/fc-825/
> 
> Up close, the brush-strokes look like bristling fur mixed with flurries of snow.

_There’s nothing wrong with you._ Those words will echo in Tweek’s ears for the next two days, as his first appointment with the new psychiatrist draws closer and closer. Craig _meant_ it; he made that perfectly clear on the phone last night. “If you never really wanted to kill yourself,” he’d said, “Then you’re perfectly _fine_ in the head.” Easy as that. He’s been completely unfazed, too, when Tweek had started listing his diagnoses; his ADHD and his OCD and his anxiety. “ _Lots_ of people have those,” Craig had countered. “Doesn’t make you _any_ less normal.”  
Can it really be that simple, Tweek wonders, for the hundredth time, while he skims through Red’s write-up on the girls’ softball match against North Park High. It’s Thursday night, and for once Tweek isn’t helping out in the coffee shop – he’s needed in the Newsroom, where they’re putting together next week’s edition. Everyone’s doubling up on tasks, and Tweek’s been given the easiest one, since he’s new. He’s proofreading the first PDF – there’s already a second one, but he doesn’t “need to worry his bushy little head” about that, apparently, since all Jimmy’s doing with that one is moving some of the articles around. No text is getting changed there – not unless they get a phone-call soon…  
Tweek’s phone lies very still on the desk in front of him. He’s already texted Craig to say he can’t call until later, even though he knows how lonely and bored Craig is. Token said he’d call him, though, and Clyde’s promised to at least text Craig while he’s working at the shoe store tonight. So that’s good.  
In spite of how he’s supposed to be proofreading the first part of Token’s enormous interview with his parents, which Jimmy decided had to be divided into at _least_ three parts because peoples’ attention spans are short, Tweek finds himself scrolling back up to the very top. Where Henrietta’s picture of the five of them hugging, right after Craig woke up, has been blown up and sharpened as much as Dean’s Photoshop skills would allow for. It’s the only photo on the whole front page, and the headline that’s been crammed in next to it, with just one long word or two short ones on each line, reads: _SOUTH PARK HIGH STUDENT WAKES UP FROM COMA._ It’s the lead article, and Jimmy wrote it. _Sometimes,_ the article begins, _All it takes for a miracle to happen, is a guinea pig. Oh, and true love, but let’s start with the guinea pig. It was smuggled into hospital under a coat…_  
It should be, “into _the_ hospital” Tweek suddenly realizes – gah! He’s already read through this _twice_ without spotting that; how will he _ever_ be any use to them here, if he only spots a mistake like that on the third read-through?! Shaking his head and muttering under his breath, Tweek edits that extra word in, and makes sure to colour it red, too.  
Suddenly, Tweek’s phone goes off. Since he’s made sure to only set it to vibrate, it starts buzzing, then slowly hopping towards the side of the computer desk. Like it’s hoping to commit phone suicide, aiming for that wastepaper basket between this desk and the one Jimmy’s working at. Tweek’s still staring at it when Jimmy’s phone goes off. In what can only be some sort of subconscious ex-Catholic act of self-flagellation; the ringtone he’s got is the chorus from Power of Love.  
Shaking himself, Tweek picks his phone up and takes the call. It’s Dad, and his voice is all jumpy with excitement. “ _Finally,_ ” Dad groans, as soon as Tweek’s said hi. “The police called! The prints were a perfect match! We’ve _got_ him, Tweek!”  
“Oh,” Tweek hears himself say, as relief spreads through his whole body. “Right.”  
Meanwhile, Jimmy is doubled over laughing at his own desk. “Y-you’re shitting me,” he says, in between gasping for air. “No, that’s perfect, if the p-p-police told you, I’d say it’s f-fair game for us…”  
“They took Eric Cartman into custody this morning,” Dad is saying, sounding incredibly satisfied, “And gave him a couple hours to stew in a cell. Seems that didn’t hurt, because as soon as his mother showed up and they could start _interviewing_ him,” Tweek can just about hear Dad rolling his eyes over the phone, “That boy tripped himself up, and confessed to nailing that poor rat up straight away.” Dad’s not exactly impressed that they’re treating Cartman like a minor – which he still _is,_ in spite of everything – but Tweek knows they can’t legally interrogate him without an adult present. “And Tweek – he just confessed to the break-in. Of course, he’s trying to pin as much as possible on the McCormick boy, but…”  
“Yessss,” Tweek says, as quietly as he can, his hand balling up into a fist.  
“Guys,” Jimmy’s saying, as he puts his phone down, clearly struggling not to laugh, “L-listen to this: When they asked Cartman about the rat? He t-t-turned to his mom, and went, “B-but Clyde hit meee!” So we’ve got some edits to m-make!”

Friday morning, Tweek can barely keep himself from yawning right in Bebe’s face, as he slides into the back seat next to her. It’s the second night in a row she’s stayed over at Clyde’s, and the second _morning_ she’s stuck around to drive to school with them all, claiming the middle seat for herself. It’s like Bebe literally doesn’t care what people at school might think; or almost like she’s _encouraging_ them to think… certain things. And Clyde, well, it’s like he’s too content to even think about people finding out that they’ve gone to, to whatever the last base is called. The _ultimate_ base?  
“Did you name this car yet,” she asks, snuggling up close to Clyde as soon as they’ve all put their seatbelts on.  
“Why would I name my _car,_ ” Token asks, as he pulls out of the Valmers’ driveway.  
“Esther and Kevin named _their_ car.” Bebe shrugs, and makes sure to catch Tweek’s eye before she goes on, “Since it’s a Prius, how about Priscilla?”  
Token groans, but Tweek goes from zero to helpless with laughter in under a second, and Jimmy reaches back between the seats to high-five Bebe. Clyde just grins – hugely and quietly.  
“I could make up a new rule,” Token says at last. “About shitty puns getting people banned from my car.” He sounds like he means it, but there’s a little grin tugging at the right corner of his mouth; you can see it clearly in the rear-view mirror.  
“Like you could _do_ that to Jimmy,” Clyde says, all innocent, prompting Jimmy to laugh and flip him off.  
“Sleep w-well, Clyde,” Jimmy drawls, wagging his eyebrows.  
Clyde instantly turns red. “Yeah, I… I didn’t sleepwalk last night either, so…”  
“The trick,” Bebe says smugly, “Is keeping him too worn-out to sleepwalk.”  
“Gah,” Tweek yelps, and covers his face with both hands, while Token swerves violently.  
“TMI, Bebe,” he snaps, “Jesus!”  
Clyde just laughs, before he bends down and nuzzles Bebe’s hair.  
“There’s literally n-no joke I can c-c-crack,” Jimmy groans, stealing a sip from Token’s coffee and wrinkling his nose in disgust. “Ugh, either it’s t-too sweet, or it’s ulcer f-f-flavoured!” He drops the Tweak Bros travel mug back into the cup holder. “Can’t you m-make one that’s in the m-m-middle?”  
“I’ll see what I can do,” Tweek mutters, lowering his hands from his burning cheeks. Craig wouldn’t be this embarrassed, would he?  
“Anyway,” Token says, like he’s forcibly wrenching the conversation onto a less mortifying track, “My dad said to tell you guys, since you might not be aware of how this stuff works, that…” He sighs. “Basically, Cartman won’t be locked up yet. These things take time, and since _he’s_ not threatened anybody with a knife, he’s _technically_ still got the right to an education…” Token shrugs.  
“So w-what, he’s just g-gonna come back to s-s- _school_ and…” Jimmy actually growls out loud in frustration, and Tweek has a guilty little idea who he might’ve picked _that_ bad habit up from.  
“No,” Token says hurriedly, “There _is_ some good news, I swear! Dad put some serious pressure on the school board, and they’re not letting Cartman back in! His mom was totally angling for it, but he’s being transferred to Middle Park, and that’s final!”  
“Thank God,” Clyde says – and then, in the same breath, “Poor Esther! And Bradley!”  
“Poor literally all of Middle Park High,” Tweek says, blinking.  
“Nah,” Bebe says, waving his concerns away, “I’m sure he’ll come labelled with a warning, right? So everybody there should _know_ what to expect, by the time he waddles in.”  
“W-what kind of w-w-warning,” Jimmy asks, “D-do not expose to Jewish p-people and KFC?”  
“The _main_ thing is, he won’t be our problem anymore.” Token seems to think about it for a second, before he adds, “Unless he’s stupid enough to pull any more of his revenge crap. But I wouldn’t think so?”  
“It’ll be fine,” Tweek says, and it comes out sounding a _lot_ more confident than he actually feels. “My heart is supposed to be, as brave and fearless as the sea,” he adds, more quietly, nodding to himself, as Token pulls up at a red light.  
Clyde suddenly sits up very straight. “ _What_ did you just say?”  
“It’s, uh, my new mantra?” Tweek can’t help but wonder if he’s just pissed Clyde off somehow. But why would he be pissed? “It’s just, ngh, Craig made it up for me, the other night.”  
“I know that look,” Bebe says, and pokes her finger up and right into Clyde’s armpit.  
“Stop it,” he begs, but clearly Bebe knows exactly where and how to tickle him.  
“Here’s a mantra for you,” Token mutters, as the light shifts back to green, “Do Not Distract the Driver.”  
“Gah, fine,” Clyde wheezes, pinning Bebe’s hands down at her sides. “It’s, it’s from this poem he wrote, okay?”  
“Craig wrote p-p- _poetry?_ ”  
“I wasn’t supposed to _tell_ anybody,” Clyde groans, and Tweek would feel bad for him if he wasn’t so incredibly, rabidly curious, “But Craig had like, this whole blue _notebook_ full of poems about, about being in love and stuff. And he made me _read_ them,” Clyde adds, like this was a torture the Spanish Inquisition could only _dream_ of cooking up.  
They’re nowhere _near_ school yet, but Token pulls over into an empty parking spot outside the town library and kills the engine. “Let me get this straight,” he says, and his voice is deceptively even, as he jabs his thumb over his shoulder. At Tweek. “There’s a whole notebook out there somewhere, full of poems about _him?”_  
Wordlessly, Clyde nods.  
Meanwhile, Tweek has frozen in place. He opens his mouth; then closes it again, when he realizes that no sounds will come out. No wonder Craig told him to lie like that, that time Jimmy and the others read Tweek’s half of their conversation. No wonder the first thing that popped into his mind was, “Say it’s a poem”.  
“Ode To a T-Twitchy Boy,” Jimmy says, like he’s trying this title on for size. “Hm. Or how about, Shall I c-c-compare thee to a single b-bean roast?”  
“You should at _least_ stick to the iambic pentameter,” Token chides him gently, as he revs the Prius’ engine back up. “Anyway. Thanks for, ah, for clarifying that for us, Clyde.”  
Clyde buries his face in his hands. “Craig’s gonna kill me for _real_ now,” he mutters, while Bebe pets his hair and says, “There, there, I’ll protect you.”

At two forty-five, Tweek is boarding the blue express bus to Denver, and Cartman’s revenge crap is the last thing on his mind. Craig’s poetry, though? That’s another matter entirely, but Tweek is doing his very best not to think about _that._ He’s got Dad’s old duffel slung over one shoulder, and Mom’s right behind him with her much-repaired travel bag that she’s had since Tibet, reaching past Tweek to give the driver their print-out tickets. The two of them are staying the night in Denver, because tomorrow is Tweek’s birthday, _and_ a Saturday. Dad’s booked them a twin room at a B&B in Five Point, and will be driving out to Denver by himself tomorrow. That’s when they’re taking Craig out for a meal, but Tweek will already get to see him tonight. But only for an hour or so; and only _after_ he’s seen the psychiatrist. That’s why Tweek isn’t _quite_ bouncing off the walls with anticipation.  
After he’s shoved his own bags up on the luggage shelf above their seat – and Mom’s bag, too, which makes her laugh and mutter something about what a _gentleman_ he’s become – Tweek slides into the window seat. He’s come straight from school, which means his textbooks are also getting a trip to Denver, but whatever. It’s not like they weigh _that_ much; and he’d carry _rocks_ on his back if it means he gets to see Craig.  
“And did Clyde sleepwalk last night,” Mom is asking, as she sits down next to him. She takes off her fisherman’s cap and absently puts it down on top of her seatbelt buckle, before she starts digging around in her handbag for something.  
“Nah,” Tweek replies, “Bebe stayed over again. I think they… you know.” He can feel his cheeks starting to heat up again. “I mean, this makes two mornings she’s gone to school with us in Token’s car, and…” It’s the casualness of it, more than anything. The way Bebe snuggles under Clyde’s arm like she’s always belonged there, and the way Clyde doesn’t even seem to _think_ about putting his hand on Bebe’s waist. “And he seems a lot happier,” Tweek finishes, looking out the window to try and disguise his blush. To hide how much he wishes _he_ could have that kind of, of unthinking intimacy with _Craig._  
“Tweek,” Mom says, “Should I be giving you the sex talk?”  
“Mom,” Tweek hisses, spinning around so fast, he knocks her hat on the floor, “Not on the express bus to Denver!”  
Mom slaps a hand over her mouth, but not fast enough to hold in a really loud snort. Then she says; “That boy isn’t nearly as tough as he looks. Not as tough as you are.”  
That’s when the bus lurches to a start, and the recorded announcement about wearing your seatbelt comes on. They both dutifully buckle up, and Mom retrieves her hat, but before she stuffs it in her handbag, she pulls out an envelope.  
“Oh, I almost forgot!” Judging by that twinkle in her eye, though, Mom didn’t forget _anything._ “You got this is in the post.”  
“What?!” Tweek yanks it from her fingers, almost hard enough to tear the paper. He knows that handwriting; the one that’s so much nicer than his own. A plain white envelope sealed with a thick strip of brown packing tape; as if Craig were afraid his letter might fall out. Tweek ends up peeling that tape off so he can stick his finger inside one corner, ripping the top of the envelope open.  
_Hey Tweek,_ the letter begins, and Craig’s even dated it, up in the right-hand corner, _Nov. 6th._  
_Thank you for the letter. Mike offered to check it for me and I thought about it, but I only want YOU to read this. So, sorry if I screw up. You’ll just have to live with it._  
Tweek’s had enough exposure to Craig’s bone-dry humour by now that he can just about hear that sentence, in Craig’s trademark nasal drawl.  
_Thank you as well for telling me about the dead rat. Guess who didn’t mention it at all, when he came to see me? I know he only did that so I won’t get stressed out. But I hate not knowing what’s going on. Not surprised though, that’s 100% something Tinkerbell would do._  
Tinkerbell, Tweek thinks, looking up from Craig’s letter for a second. They’re still driving through town, but they’re almost at the freeway. Is Craig talking about _Cartman?_ He’s _got_ to be… But, seriously – Tinkerbell?!  
_I bet you his mom will get him back into school somehow, even after THAT. Have you heard anything back from the cops? After you gave them Tinkerbell’s fingerprints? Just be careful, he’s gonna blame YOU for all the fiberglass he’s landed himself in. (This is why I hate him btw. Reason no. 35.)_  
Tweek snorts. Tinkerbell, he thinks. Clyde might actually laugh himself to _death_ when he hears about that. But then, the next sentence makes Tweek’s breath catch in his throat.  
_Anyway,_ Craig has written, _I’ve been thinking about that lunch tray in my room. And I know that was me. Because I’ve worked out how I did it. It was just like that time with the basketballs. That time I was really angry, and the other time I was really scared. But both times, I sort of reached? It’s hard to explain. It feels like looking for your keys in your bag when it’s too dark to see. Like a sudden “gotcha!” kind of feeling. I’ve been testing it out, and it’s not always a “gotcha!” but I’ve done it a few times now! And before you ask (I know you will) of course I’m being careful. Nobody’s seen me._  
Tweek growls out loud. How can Craig even _know_ that?! Maybe there are cameras in all the bedrooms, so the nurses on site can make sure all the patients are okay? Tweek has a vague feeling that might actually be illegal, but holy shit! What if someone _does_ see, like Mike-the-roommate, and tells the doctors?! And then, they’ll take Craig away to a _facility_ somewhere, God knows where, and experiment on him, and…  
“Hey kiddo,” Mom says calmly, looking up from her copy of Vegetarian Times.  
“I’m fine!” Those words leave his mouth before he can even think about what to say, but Tweek decides he might as well stick with it, and gives Mom his best reassuring grin. The _last_ thing he needs is for Mom to decide he can’t _handle_ reading Craig’s letter – what if she confiscates it, and then accidentally reads the bit about… No. With an effort, Tweek slows his breathing down, folds the letter back up, and says, “Craig’s just being stupid.”  
“Oh. So he’s being a _man_ about this, is he?” Mom rolls her eyes at the stupidity of men everywhere. “Pushing himself harder than he’s supposed to? Typical men. Present company excepted,” she adds hurriedly, and gives Tweek a little nudge, “ _You’ve_ got more than _half_ a brain. But your father… You should have seen him back in Khatmandu; insisting he was fiiine to run the shop, even though he had it coming out of both ends…”  
Tweek just has to laugh. “Poor Dad,” he says, bopping his head against the side of Mom’s head, while a small part of him wonders just _how_ he managed to calm down that fast.  
“Pfft,” is Mom’s only reply, as she goes back to her magazine and earmarks a recipe for Hummus Pie. Cautiously, Tweek unfolds the letter again.  
_I can’t wait to show you when you get here. And I can’t wait to see you. Goddamn it I wasn’t going to write that. But I miss you._  
Tweek turns the page over, eyes widening when he sees that Craig has drawn him a small map – badly. There’s a square that has _“Recep’tn”_ scrawled inside it, and an arrow pointing at an upright rectangle marked _“Elev. to 2nd fl.”_ Two more or less parallel snaking lines lead out of that box, and all the way up to a third box labelled 213 and marked with a lop-sided star. Craig has written _I’m here_ next to that star, like this is a treasure map or something. Alongside the map, the letter carries on: _I drew you a house of where my room is, but if you ask them to call I can come down and meet you. But NB I walk like a grandpa now, so don’t hold your breath and maybe find somewhere to sit. Oh, and I love you CRAZIEST._

The psychiatrist is nothing like what Tweek had expected. She’s a woman, for one thing, and for some reason, he just assumed it’d be some stuffy old man with a couch and a beard. But Dr Hoffman is actually quite pretty, with light-brown hair piled up high on her head, and she’s wearing a blouse that’s got lots of tiny little Wiener dogs printed on it. “Why don’t you put your stuff down and take your shoes off,” she says, as Tweek shuffles inside her office with one bag over each shoulder.  
There’s no couch in here; just two worn-in leather chairs set up to face one another, and a white, fluffy rug spread out between them. There’s a desk up against one wall, too, and Dr Hoffman retrieves an envelope from it, crossing the room on her stockinged feet. “Come join me over here,” she says, sinking gracefully down onto the rug. Holding that envelope up like it’s some kind of treasure.  
The rug is impossibly soft. If it were actually possible to sit on a cloud, this is probably what that would feel like, Tweek thinks, as he digs his fingers through the fibres. He quickly snatches his hand back though, when Dr Hoffman shakes out the envelope and a whole bunch of printed postcards fall out. “This is how I like to get to know my patients,” she says, smoothing the postcards out with one hand, straightening the ones that landed white side up. “I’d like you to pick the one you feel represents you the most. Can you do that for me, Tweek?”  
His fist, crazy thought is that he needs to work out which card is the _right_ one. Which one she’s hoping he’ll pick. But then, it hits him – this isn’t about being “right”. All pictures on the cards are sort of… abstract. Mostly paintings, some sculptures, a few charcoal sketches. Tweek flicks through them all, and even recognizes a couple – that’s Picasso’s “Guernica”!  
Suddenly, he’s found it. It’s a painting that looks like fur and snow all mixed up, like it’d be fuzzy _and_ a little cold if you could touch it. All chaotic brushstrokes in shades of black, white and a yellowy brown. “This one,” Tweek says, holding the card up so he can read the tiny writing printed on the back. _Lee Krasner, Polar Stampede, 1960._ “I’m a… polar stampede, I guess?”  
“Hm,” Dr Hoffman says, like Tweek’s gone and picked the last picture she expected him to. “So tell me, what made you choose that one?”  
Tweek bites his lip for a second. “I mean,” he says, “I used to be more… all over the place? Because I’ve got ADHD, I used to… Just do stuff without stopping to think so much, you know? My mom used to say I was full of beans,” he adds, smiling a little, “And sometimes, she’d say that my _beans_ had beans.”  
“So what changed,” she asks, and Tweek has to drop his gaze to the rug.  
“We moved, and I had to change schools, and these guys started picking on me,” he mutters. “And I had to, uh, learn to be careful with, with what I said, and sort of… try to disappear, I guess? Oh, and I have to take Xanax since I nearly killed myself,” he adds, plastering a smile across his face before he looks back up at the doctor. “And it’s, ah, Xanax – one, beans – zero.”  
“I see.” Dr Hoffman’s voice is very soft, but it’s not like she feels sorry for him – obviously, she knows all about the so-called suicide attempt from his case file. It’s more like, like she actually gets it. “So does that mean you’d like to come off the Xanax eventually,” she asks, without any inflection whatsoever.  
“More than anything,” Tweek blurts out, “ _And_ the Anfranil, but I’ve already been off that for about a week now. Sorry,” he adds, and finally manages to look up.  
“You don’t need to apologize,” Dr Hoffman tells him, as she calmly starts gathering all the other postcards back up. “Keep that one,” she adds, when Tweek tries to hand Polar Stampede back to her. “We’re going to use that picture to help you visualize your goal…”

Mom’s in the waiting room, reading a copy of New Scientist, of all things, when Tweek’s appointment is over. “Egg sandwich,” she says, tossing her magazine down on the empty seat next to her, before she digs out a small packet wrapped in brown grease-paper from her handbag. “We can get some dinner after you’ve seen Craig; there’s a vegan Japanese place a couple of blocks down from the rehab center that I thought we might try. I booked us a table for ten past eight.”  
Tweek puts his duffel down on the floor and silently takes the sandwich from her hand; the packet is still warm. Mom can be scarily efficient when she needs to be. “Aren’t you …” he begins, jerking his head back at the door that’s just closed behind him.  
“That’s supposed to be between you and your therapist,” Mom tells him, with a strained little smile. “Unless you don’t think Dr Hoffman was a good fit for you?”  
“Oh no,” Tweek says hurriedly, “I like her!” He almost pulls the postcard out from his backpack to show Mom, but she’s already pulled his parka down from the dumbwaiter, and is holding it out to him.  
“Give me the sandwich. Put your coat on.” Mom’s smile suddenly widens. “Or don’t you want to see that boyfriend of yours?”

Craig is waiting in the reception area, perched at the very edge of one of the blue easy-chairs that line the walls. Tapping both feet at once, heels bouncing off the shiny brown floor. So much for getting the receptionist to call his room, huh? When Craig stands up, Tweek sees that there’s another boy sitting next to him – Mike-the-roommate? Waiting here with Craig, so he wouldn’t get lonely? Tweek doesn’t have it in him to care right now, or waste time on fripperies like introducing himself. He just pelts right past the reception desk, leaving it to Mom to explain everything to the poor woman who’s working there, and hurls himself at Craig. Craig may still be wobbly on his feet, but he _smells_ like himself, and Tweek suddenly realizes he’s crying. Even though he _promised_ himself that he wouldn’t.  
“What’s wrong,” Craig asks him, and even his _voice_ is back to normal now! He can hug Tweek with both arms _and_ talk at the same time – his throat is all healed up, because it’s been a week! A whole week!  
“Nuh-nothing’s wrong,” Tweek hiccups, burrowing his face deeper into Craig’s NASA hoodie, “I’m just so, so happy to see you…”  
“You’re not supposed to _cry_ when you’re happy!” Craig sounds both worried and exasperated, all at once, as he tucks Tweek’s head under his chin. “Uh, hi Mrs Tweak,” he adds, so embarrassed that Tweek can’t help but laugh a little.  
“Sorry,” Tweek mutters, pushing back from Craig a little so he can rub his sleeve across his eyes and suck some snot back up his nose.  
“So you’re the boyfriend, huh?”  
Tweek looks over – and down – at the slim-faced blonde boy who was waiting here with Craig. Only now does it register with him that this boy is in a wheelchair. “Yeah,” he says, and lets go of Craig with just his right arm, so he can lean _around_ Craig and hold his hand out for a shake. “Sorry I’m such a spaz. I’m Tweek.”  
“Mike,” the other boy says. His hand is warm and his grip is firm, but he has the saddest eyes Tweek has ever seen. “And don’t worry, you’re fine! You guys can have the room,” he adds, as he pulls his hand back. “I’m gonna go see who’s still in the TV room.”  
“Thanks,” Craig says quietly, as Mike wheels himself over towards the double doors at the wall, and presses the green button next to them.  
“Don’t mention it,” Mike says, as the automatic doors swing open. There’s so much fake cheerfulness in his voice that Tweek winds up burying his face in Craig’s sweater again. He can’t just go around feeling so sorry for someone he’s known for less than a minute. If Jimmy were here right now, Tweek just knows he’d be really unimpressed.  
“You boys go off and canoodle,” Mom says, waving her arm towards the elevators, shooing them away. “You’ve got exactly an hour and a half!”

It’s immediately apparent which half of the room is Craig’s, and not just because he’s got less stuff spread out. He’s got that moon globe on the bedside table, for one thing, instead of a regular lamp. And also, the desk on Craig’s side of the room has a chair in front of it – the other desk doesn’t.  
“He’s never gonna walk again,” Craig says, jerking his head at Mike’s side of the room. Craig’s gait is faster, now that he’s got Tweek tucked under his arm, propping him up. But every few steps, it’s like his balance suddenly just goes. “So I feel guilty about getting better. Is that weird?”  
“You can never be weirder than me,” Tweek assures him, as he pulls Craig along for the last few steps until they reach his bed. “But no. I don’t think it’s weird.” He lets Craig sit down first, with one hand on the bedframe and the other around his arm. Then Tweek sinks down next to him, and tips his chin up so he can give Craig a quick kiss on the side of his jaw. “There’s just… no proper etiquette for feeling bad for someone, is there?”  
Craig’s warm breath tickles the side of Tweek’s neck. “I guess not,” Craig whispers, before planting a careful kiss on his cheek.  
Tweek can see how that hole in Craig’s throat has closed up completely now, but it’s left a deep dent in his neck, big enough to stick a marble inside. “Does this hurt,” he whispers, before he carefully kisses the skin right above the scar.  
“Not really,” Craig is saying, but Tweek has already forgotten what they were talking about.  
“Your hair got longer,” he says, pushing his fingers up through that downy black fuzz. It’s still nice and soft, though. He runs his thumb along the bottom ridge of Craig’s skull, back and forth, until Craig grunts something unintelligible and ducks his head, pressing his warm, soft lips against Tweek’s scratchy chapped lips. Tweek leans into the kiss, and lets his eyes slip closed. His hand fumbles for Craig’s hand on the bed covers, braiding their fingers together into one big knot, and his heart is beating hard, like a thousand hooves on frozen ground, like a polar stampede.


	29. It’s called giving birth, dear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hereby present the world's squirmiest first date. Don't say I didn't warn you. 
> 
> EDIT: OMG, 4K hits now?! Thank you all so much! 
> 
> Also, it's apparently quite common that babies who are born too early end up being diagnosed with ADHD when they get older. But hey, at least Tweek escaped being a December baby and having everyone combine his birthday and Christmas presents! ("Always look on the bright side of life," as Monty Python used to sing.)

“So…” Craig says, “Want me to show you?”  
“I want you to _kiss_ me,” Tweek mutters, but he has to admit he’s curious.  
The two of them kicked off their shoes a while ago, to stretch out on Craig’s narrow bed. It’s the first time they’ve been able to do something like this, and it’s every bit as amazing as Tweek used to imagine it might be. He never even _realized_ he could lie this still for so long! But Craig’s arm slots around him so perfectly, and if he rests his head on Craig’s chest, Tweek can totally hear his heartbeat. Even their breathing seems to have synched, Tweek thinks, as Craig’s ribcage rises and falls underneath his cheek. Or rather, _his_ breathing has slowed down, until he almost feels drowsy – but, it’s a different drowsiness to what the Xanax gives him. This is just… contentment.  
“Have you got anything on you,” Craig asks, a lazy grin tugging at his bottom lip. “I kind of don’t want to move?”  
Tweek clears his throat. “If you ask me properly,” he says, “If I’ve got anything in my _pockets,_ because it’s just me and I don’t care if you get words wrong… Then, maybe?”  
Craig groans. “Busted,” he mutters, and rolls his eyes at the ceiling. “Fine. Do you have anything in your pockets?”  
“Hey, you got it right!” Grinning like a lunatic, Tweek quickly digs through his side pockets and drops everything he finds on Craig’s chest. His scrunched-up bus ticket, the wrapper from a lozenge Token forced on him after he coughed _once,_ and a couple dollars’ worth of loose change. And his phone, ancient and awful.  
Craig grins, then selects a coin from the pile – a shiny, silvery quarter. “Watch this,” he mutters, as he takes Tweek’s hand, flattens his fingers out, and places the quarter on his palm.  
“Shit,” Tweek yelps, when the coin rises from his hand, and keeps on rising, until it’s hovering a good inch or so above his palm.  
“I can’t do more than one yet,” Craig says, right before the quarter suddenly lands in Tweek’s hand again. “But I _can_ do something heavier!” As if on cue – ugh, of course it’s on cue, Craig is being a showy asshole, isn’t he – Tweek’s phone rises from Craig’s stomach. It hangs there in the air, the sides dipping up and down a bit, like it’s hard for Craig to keep it balanced.  
“Wow,” Tweek says – right before his phone emits a fizzing sound, and the screen turns bright blue – then black, before it clatters to the floor.  
“I’m sorry!” Craig sits up abruptly, coins spilling down to land on the covers, on the floor, clinking and spinning.  
“Don’t worry about it,” Tweek says, and does his best to sound like this wasn’t a disaster at all, “It was really old, you know?” Sure, his old phone was a piece of crap, but how’s he going to stay in touch with Craig _now?_  
“I’ll give you mine,” Craig is saying, opening the only drawer in his little bedside table; Tweek can see Craig’s phone in there.  
“No,” Tweek snaps, a little – okay, a _lot_ – louder than he needs to, as he reaches past Craig and pushes the drawer shut. “Sorry,” he adds, blushing, “But I can just call your from our landline! And I’m sure Clyde’ll let me text you from _his_ phone, and then I’ll just delete it if I write anything mushy. I mean,” he quickly amends, “I’ll delete _anything_ I write, and whatever you reply with! So don’t worry about it, okay?!”  
“Okay.” Craig sighs, before he wraps his whole arm around Tweek’s neck and pulls him close. “Okay,” he says again, rubbing his chin against the top of Tweek’s head, “We’ll do it your way, babe.” 

His birthday gets off to the best start, when Tweek and Mom swing by the Ashram for early morning Vinyasa. He gets hugs from almost everybody who’s shown up, including the instructor, Daniella, who’s cut her hair even shorter since the last time Tweek saw her. It’s almost like a Mohawk now, the way she’s trimmed it along the sides. “There you are,” Daniella says in her lilting German accent, and holds her arms out for a hug, “We missed you last week!”  
Tweek hugs her back, and even picks her up for a second, too, because Daniella weighs literally nothing. “I missed you guys too,” he mutters, blinking so he won’t start to cry like an idiot.  
It’s been so long since Tweek put his body through all the forms and poses. Sure, he tried a couple of times, when he was still in mental hospital. But, with all the meds he was on, it wasn’t easy to concentrate. Or even do Downward Dog without falling over. So it feels good, now, to stand here on his borrowed yoga mat and finally get back into the swing of it, to remember how strong his body can be when he gives it half a chance.  
And then, when it’s all over and Mom’s done her perfect Crow Pose that she can hold forever, and Tweek’s managed to hold his Crow Pose for all of thirty seconds… When they’re all just lying on the floor in Savasana and panting, palms turned up towards the ceiling, happy and exhausted… That’s when one voice at the far end of the room starts singing, “Happy birthday to you,” and pretty soon, everyone in the whole _class_ has joined in. And Tweek just lies there, panting on his blue yoga mat, grinning from ear to ear. “Happy birthday to Twee-eek, happy birthday tooo youuuu!”

Mom gets them both a cappuccino from the Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf down the road. She gets a bagel for herself too, to munch on while they wait outside the store for Dad. Mom’s always ravenous after yoga, but Tweek firmly insisted he didn’t want any food – they’re going for dim sum, after all. That’s when you eat until you _burst,_ so he can’t go filling up on bread or whatever beforehand.  
It’s still freezing out, and Tweek’s glad he thought to pack his wool-blend camp socks, since the wind blows right through his Converse. Good thing he finally got his black jeans back from Clyde, who even washed them for him, since they’re the warmest jeans he owns. Mom, who hates wearing trousers in any shape or form, is bundled up in wool tights, her longest coat, and her ankle-length denim skirt. The one Dad’s always called her Duggar skirt, after that Baptist family on TV. She’s still hopping from foot to foot and shivering, chewing on her bagel like a squirrel chewing on a nut. When her phone rings, Mom even swipes past the screen lock with her _nose,_ rather than take her glove off.  
“Oh, hi Janet! Yes, we’re waiting for Richard to pick us up…”  
Negotiations for Craig’s temporary freedom had hit a snag, earlier this week, when they found out that Craig can only be released into the wild if he’s in the custody of a family member. Which is where Janet Tucker comes in – Craig’s grandma lives in Denver, after all, and she’s been to see him nearly every day since he got admitted to the rehab facility. Except for Thursday, when one of her fillings came out and she had to go to the dentist, according to Craig. Listening to Craig talk about his grandma is just the nicest thing. It’s like they get each other on a whole other level than the rest of their family. Peas from the same pod, the apple landing right next to the tree; whatever it is that people say.  
“No, I’m not that tall, either,” Mom is saying, with a little laugh, as she starts to wave her free hand above her head. “But I’m waving at you! Wherever you are!”  
“Mom,” Tweek whispers, fighting the urge to roll his eyes. “Maybe just tell here where _we_ are?”  
Mom and Dad have never actually _met_ Craig’s grandma, and it’s not like her ancient phone could’ve handled it, if Tweek had even _thought_ of sending her a photo of his parents. But he suddenly spots her just across the road – wearing a dark green wool coat with a black grid pattern on it, cinched at the waist with a belt, and with a black beret perched at an angle on her head, showing off her still-red hair. Has Craig’s grandma had that coat since she was young, Tweek wonders for a second, because she literally looks like she just stepped out of a time-portal. “Over here, Mrs Tucker,” he yells, choking down his embarrassment, because Denver is big, and Tweek’s not likely to ever see any of the people on this street again.  
Janet Tucker raises her hand in one quick, authoritative wave, almost like a semaphore signal. Then she drops her phone into her handbag, seemingly without bothering to end the call; and strides across the zebra crossing. There’s nothing for the cars to do _but_ brake; it’s almost like the force of her personality is pushing them back. And the first thing she says to Mom, the _first_ thing, is “Well! How young _were_ you when you had this one?”  
“Too young,” Mom giggles, preening a little at the compliment. “I gave birth to him in our car, you know?”  
Craig’s grandma doesn’t even blink at this rather leftfield turn the conversation’s taken, she just grins up at Mom. “My goodness, I feel positively _boring_ now,” she says, placing a black-gloved hand on Mom’s arm as she laughs. “I only had my Thomas in the hospital!”  
Mom joins in, and her laugh is so loud that at _least_ five people turn to stare at her. But of course, Tweek thinks, it figures. Probably _anyone_ who’s into women will be into Mom. If they’re above a certain age, anyway.  
“And today is your birthday, Sir Lancelot,” Mrs Tucker suddenly says, jolting Tweek out of his thoughts. “I’ve brought you a present, though you may think it’s a terribly boring one.”  
“Why would I – I mean, thank you, that’s – I’m not,” Tweek babbles, and he can feel himself turning red; “You really didn’t have to, Mrs Tucker!”  
Thankfully, that’s when Dad appears, leaning over the passenger seat to pop the door of the Datsun open. “Get in before the traffic cops see me,” he hisses, which is a hell of a way to greet Mrs Tucker for the first time. She gets shotgun, of course, while Mom and Tweek pile into the back seat; and Dad tears away from the curb before they’ve even had time to buckle up properly. “Oh,” he says, almost as an afterthought, glancing at Tweek in the rear-view mirror, “Happy birthday, son!” 

One of the conditions of Craig’s freedom was that he had to agree to a wheelchair. Which he’s done; without so much as a single word of protest, though Tweek can tell that he hates it. After last night, though, Tweek is secretly a little relieved; Craig still isn’t steady enough on his feet. His left leg’s definitely the stronger one – every time he almost stumbled, it was because his right leg suddenly buckled. Makes sense, he supposes, since Craig’s left side is his dominant one. As they all get out of the car in the parking garage on 17th Street, and Dad lifts the folded-up wheelchair out of the trunk, Tweek can’t help but notice how they’ve also given Craig a square black cushion to sit on.  
“It sort of… hurts to sit for too long,” Craig mutters, blushing a little under his IKEA hat as he leans on Tweek’s shoulder. Damn, he’s noticed Tweek’s staring! And now he’s embarrassed, and it’s all Tweek’s fault, and…  
“What,” Tweek says the first thing that pops into his mind, “Because _you_ have next to no ass now?”  
When he recognizes the first thing he said to Tweek, back in Mackie’s office, back when he was still just a soul with no body, Craig laughs so hard that he almost falls over. “Touché, babe,” he wheezes, while Tweek has to steady him with both hands. Which isn’t easy, since he’s also laughing now. Distantly, he notices Mom taking a photo of them, but what the hell.  
“Stop horsing around, you two,” Mrs Tucker tells them, but she’s smiling.  
“Were we ever that cute,” Mom whispers into Dad’s ear while she passes him the seat cushion.  
“Vogon poetry,” Dad replies, wagging his eyebrows at her as he carefully positions the cushion on the seat. “With a guitar?”  
Mom tilts her head, and pretends to give this some serious consideration. “Nope,” she says at last, prompting another big laugh from Tweek, “Not _nearly_ as cute. Come on, Craig,” Mom snaps her fingers into the backrest of the wheelchair, “Sit! I bet you boys are hungry?”  
“Always,” Craig replies, very seriously, as he points at a couple strapping a baby-carrier into the backseat of their silver Nissan. “See that? I could eat their kid.”  
This time, they almost _do_ fall over, since Tweek winds up leaning on Craig too much, and Craig just starts to fold up like a deck chair. But Tweek manages to brace his legs at the last second, and Dad, who was bringing the wheelchair round anyway, grabs Craig by the shoulders and sort of yanks him upright.  
“Be careful!” Mrs Tucker waits until they’ve sat him down before she gives Craig a smack in the arm – a hard smack, too, from the startled look on his face.  
“Sorry, Grandma,” Craig mutters, and ducks his head.  
After that, Craig meekly submits to Dad pushing the wheelchair out of the garage and onto the street. “Have you ever read any Vonnegut,” Dad’s saying, “Because I’ve really done my best to like him, but I don’t know…”  
“I like the Tralfamadorians,” Craig replies, and from Dad’s approving grunt, it’s clear that he didn’t mess up this long, weird made-up word at all. “I like how the rhubarb was just a dot.”  
“Oh, their message, you mean?” Tweek did try to brief Dad yesterday morning, on how to properly correct Craig, but that clearly went in one ear and out the other. “Well, it _did_ mean “Greetings” in Tralfamadorian, so technically it wasn’t _just_ a dot...”  
Tweek winds up walking on his own – behind the wheelchair, and in front of Mom and Mrs Tucker. They seem to have become instant friends, walking with their arms linked while they chat. Tweek suddenly notices how other pedestrians stop and turn their heads, more than once, to get an extra long look at Craig. He sees the hunch in Craig’s shoulders, too, and the way even the back of his neck seem to be turning red. Jesus! Just because Craig looks like he’s been wheeled right out of a concentration camp, doesn’t give people the right to stare like that!  
“Are they like the Vogons,” Tweek asks, running the handful of steps up behind them and putting his hand on Craig’s neck, gently squeezing, while they wait for the green man at a pedestrian crossing. Anything to distract him from all those stares, anything.  
“The Tralfamadorians?!” Dad sounds scandalized. “Of course not! They’re completely benevolent, and they – ”  
“Wipe out the guys who made them,” Craig pipes up, smirking, as his hand slides up to cover Tweek’s. “Like how the Vogons wipe out Earth?” It’s like he’s suddenly forgotten that he’s out in public, shivering from the cold, and being stared at.  
“Only because they were _asked_ to!” Dad’s actually getting huffy, which is pretty funny.  
“I thought you said you don’t _like_ this Van Guts guy,” Tweek says, deliberately saying the name wrong, hoping it’ll make Craig laugh – which it does, yesss!  
“Vonnegut,” Dad corrects him, “And it’s his _writing_ I don’t like! But you can’t _not like_ the Tralfamadorians!”  
“They’re Tralfam _adorable,_ ” Craig drawls, looking up at Tweek with a sly, sideways grin, just as the lights change.

The place they’re going to, Star Kitchen, comes recommended by Mrs Stoley – very _warmly_ recommended. And since Mrs Stoley _is_ Chinese, Mom’s used that to overrule Dad, who’s a creature of habit and wanted them to go back to the Hong Kong Café on Dartmouth Avenue for like the _millionth_ time. Mom made a reservation here yesterday – in person, it turns out, when the guy working at the front desk remembers her, breaks out a huge grin, and leads them to a table at the very back.  
“Is that a new blouse,” Dad says suspiciously, as Mom peels off her coat and her big, fluffy cardigan, draping them over the back of her chair. He’s right, that’s a long sleeved shirt with the coffee bean print on it; only the wavy lines are dark brown, making the beans a little harder to spot at first. And now that she’s taken her fisherman’s cap off, Tweek can see that Mom’s sporting a new pair of earrings, too – little crescent moons – that are set off by her bobbed hair. And a matching necklace; a single tiny crescent dangling from a weirdly long chain. Jesus, she had _one hour_ on her own last night!  
“Of course it’s a new blouse, Richie,” Mom says, with a little smirk. “I had to look my best for Tweek’s big day, right?”  
“Right,” Dad mutters, like he knows that he’s lost this round.  
The nice thing about Chinese restaurants is, there are _always_ vegetarian options – even on the dim sum menu. It’s something to do with how people are always atoning for stuff by abstaining from meat for like, a week or two – as a way of repaying your spiritual debt or whatever. It’s not a mindset Tweek’s ever claimed to understand, but as Dad is fond of saying, it takes all sorts to make a world. As soon as his parents have made absolutely sure Craig and his grandmother don’t want anything with meat or prawns in it – which Tweek’s pretty sure Craig _does,_ and that he’s only saying no thanks to be polite – they go into full dim sum admin mode. This involves Mom taking charge of the little pink order form you get when you sit down, while Dad runs through the menu at record speed. “Egg tarts, everybody wants at least one, right? Better make it two of those, honey. Steamed vegetable buns, anyone? Let’s get two orders, and what about turnip cakes? Or Taro root croquettes?”  
Tweek only gives the smallest of twitches when he feels Craig’s right hand close around his kneecap, giving it a quick little squeeze, before it slides on up to rest on his thigh. He glances over at Craig, who’s doing his best not to smile, and carefully places his own left hand on top of Craig’s hand. Winding his fingers through Craig’s. They’re in perfect position, really – both of them can hold hands _and_ eat with their dominant hand at the same time.  
“Lefthandedness is pretty neat,” Tweek whispers, leaning closer to Craig.  
“Mm,” Craig replies, as his smile grows just a little bit wider.  
After they’ve placed an order that sure _sounds_ enormous, and Dad’s double-checked that the turnip cakes _don’t_ have shredded pork baked into the dough, and Mom’s poured jasmine tea for everyone, there’s maybe a ten-second interval where nobody speaks. Tweek opens his mouth, but Dad beats him to it, clapping his hands together and saying, “Should we sing Happy Birthday now, or wait for – ?”  
“Gah! Please!” Tweek almost brings _both_ hands up to tug at his hair, but Craig’s grip on his left hand is very firm, “Anything but that!”  
“I’ll take that as a no,” Dad says, with a little sigh, as Tweek lets his right hand drop.  
“Well then,” Mrs Tucker says, grinning over at Mom, “What kind of car did you give birth in?”  
“Oldsmobile,” Mom replies, nodding gravely as if the _brand_ of car actually had some significance, “In the back seat.”  
“Tweek’s very first act in this life was to destroy my car.” Dad sounds like he means it, too, as he takes a sip of tea. “We could _never_ get the smell out; my brother wound up selling it for parts!”  
“If _someone_ had thought to put some towels down...” Mom gives Dad a pointed look, and Dad throws his hands up, like he’s appealing to all the 33 million Hindu gods at _once,_ or something.  
“You woke me up at four in the morning! Why would I _think_ about protecting the upholstery at four in the _morning,_ Helen!”  
Next to him, Craig starts laughing quietly, pressing his fist against his mouth. Miffed, Tweek snatches his hand back and folds his arms on the tabletop. Seriously, it’s not _that_ funny!  
“I’d heard all these horror stories about women being in labour for more than twenty-four hours,” Mom’s saying, “So I was _sure_ we’d get to the hospital on time! Then all of a sudden, I realized I had this little head between my legs! You were just in such a _hurry_ to get born,” she adds, reaching across the table to pinch Tweek’s burning cheek.  
“Mom, stop it,” Tweek mutters, twisting out of reach.  
“He was over a month early,” Dad chimes in, “So I was doing my best to keep the car on the road and not panic! But then I looked over my shoulder, and she’d gone from being strapped in like a civilized person to crouching on all fours across the back seat! Grunting like an animal! Like she’d been possessed by demons or something!”  
“It’s called giving birth, dear,” Mom deadpans, raising a single eyebrow.  
That’s when Craig loses his shit completely. Suddenly, he’s doubled over in the wheelchair, clutching his stomach and laughing, until it’s impossible to stay mad at him.  
“Try not to laugh yourself to _death,_ ” Tweek mutters, while he reaches out to rub Craig’s back. “I don’t want a ghost for a boyfriend!”  
Unfortunately, that only makes Craig laugh harder. He snatches Tweek’s hand again, pressing it against his shaking chest. Tweek has to admit that it _is_ kind of cute – just a little bit – when Craig forgets to act all stoic and tough.  
“What was his first word, then,” Craig’s grandma is asking, and her voice is all calm and collected. Like she has this kind of insane conversation _every_ day before lunch. “If he’s an only child, surely you must remember!”  
“Oh yes,” Mom says smugly, “It was Mommy, actually.”  
“Nuh-not coffee,” Craig asks, still struggling to get a hold of himself. Tweek feels compelled to nudge him with his elbow – but carefully.  
“And that was completely unfair,” Dad says, leaning back into his seat as he starts one of his damn stories, oh God, “Since we’d been having a little bit of –”  
“Full-on warfare,” Mom shoots in, making Dad sigh and look up at the ceiling.  
“Friendly competition,” Dad corrects her, giving Mom a _look._ “But Helen fought dirty. She was always saying things like, “Mommy’s going to put you to bed now,” or “You want a little sip of Mommy’s coffee?” So there was all this _underhanded_ reinforcement going on, right under my nose.”  
Mom snorts. “What he means, is that one day I put Tweek down on his lap, and Richard immediately started up his usual “Say Daddy” nonsense, while I went into the bathroom. And then Tweek looked right at the door and said “Mommy”! Loud enough that even I heard it in there!”  
Tweek growls, as quietly as he can manage, and stares fixedly down at the yellow tablecloth while he blushes. “Mom, come _on,_ ” he mutters. You can see all the soy sauce stains on this thing, faded to a pale brown but very much there. At least they’re at the back end of the restaurant! Imagine if they’d had a table right smack in the middle of everyone, JESUS!  
“I think it’s cute,” Craig says, like he actually means it and doesn’t find this shit embarrassing at all. His fingers braid themselves through Tweek’s fingers, before he gives Tweek’s hand a little squeeze.  
“So what was _your_ first word then,” Tweek asks him, a little sharper than he’d intended, “Guinea pig?”  
“No,” Craig’s grandma says, answering for him. “I used to look after him, you know, so Laura could go back to work. I was trying to give him porridge one day, when he just tugged his little head away from the spoon, looked me right in the eyes, and said “No”. It was very firm,” she adds, with a little chuckle. “Very authoritative.”  
“Then don’t feed people the same thing every day.” Craig’s grinning a little, like he’s heard this story so many times that he’s passed _through_ embarrassment, and come out on the other side.  
“He was very strict, you know,” Mrs Tucker goes on. “You only got one chance with him. If the food was too hot, and he burned his mouth – that was it. He’d just flat out refuse to eat any more.”  
“I’m sure that’s super interesting to everybody,” Craig says, and now he _is_ getting embarrassed! Finally!  
“Oh,” Mom says, like she’s suddenly remembered something, “You know what _is_ interesting? I was reading this article yesterday,” she starts digging around in her handbag, and quickly pulls out that dog-eared issue of New Scientist Tweek saw her with last night. “About egg donation?”  
This is _so_ weird, even for Mom; that even Dad just sits there and blinks at her.  
“They’ve developed a new method for same-sex couples to have _children,_ ” Mom beams, unfolding her magazine and happily tapping a really gross picture of an embryo with her finger. “So for two men, for instance, they can either _buy_ a donor egg, or a female relative on one side can _donate_ one, and then they’d use the other man’s sperm to _fertilize_ it, and pay a surrogate to, you know, grow the bun in her oven! Which means we _can_ have grandkids, Richard,” she turns to Dad, grinning from ear to ear, “If Tricia agrees to donate an egg or two, when she’s a little older! And the sperm would have to be Tweek’s, of course!”  
Dead silence settles over their little table. Tweek can’t even _look_ in Craig’s direction.  
“When she’s a _lot_ older,” Craig says, after maybe a full minute. He sounds like he wants to climb under the table and hide there, and Tweek can certainly empathise. “Unless I dump your ass because your family’s too damn weird,” he adds, and when Tweek risks a quick glance at his face, he can see that Craig is grinning.  
And that, thank Jesus, Buddha and Ganesh all at once, is when a waitress pushes her trolley over, and puts down two plates on their table, with three little egg tarts on each.  
" _Egg_ tarts," Mom says brightly, snapping her fingers, "Oh _snap,_ am I right?"  
"Mom," Tweek groans, and wraps his whole arm around his head.


	30. How do you feel about being painted blue?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took longer than usual to write, and the reason for that is POETRY. And Craig poetry is even harder to write than regular poetry - in fact, I may have to go back and edit the poem a little, though it shouldn't change too much. I'd just be fixing up the more embarrassing bits. 
> 
> Also, if you want to sing along with the Tweaks in their car, here is their song of choice:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lyqDvojqxc8

When Craig’s snatched up the very last veggie spring roll, after making double sure nobody else wants it, and dipped it in chili sauce, his grandma pulls out a flat, rectangular package. It’s wrapped in waxed brown paper, with bright red yarn tied around it in a bow, instead of ribbon, and it’s so obviously a book. Oh well, maybe he can kick of his seventeenth year by actually sitting down and _finishing_ a book, even if this one is kind of large and heavy.  
It’s not what he thinks, though – Tweek’s expecting a big, boring doorstop of a novel, but it’s a photo-book. And the name on the cover is Janet Tucker. “Before you act all impressed, I self-published this thing,” Craig’s grandma says, with a shrug and a frown, like she’s _daring_ Tweek to think that’s cool. It totally is though! “Still, I guess there’s something to be said for bringing something I made myself? Well,” she adds, “Craig made the PFD for me.”  
“PDF,” Craig corrects her unconsciously, leaning a little closer to Tweek. “And it’s not like she didn’t sit behind me and go, “Put that over there!” while I did it.”  
“You made your own _book,_ ” Mom is saying, as she gets up and walks around the table to look over Tweek’s shoulder, resting her arms on the back of his chair. Dad leans in, too, while Craig sits back – like he wants to see Tweek’s _reaction_ to the book, rather than the book itself. Since he helped put it together, Craig probably still remembers all the pictures in it…  
The book is called _Glimpses,_ and on the cover, there’s a black and white photo of a pair of wrinkled old man’s hands, held open like they’re cupping an invisible treasure. The detail is amazing; the liver spot that’s shaped a little like Mexico that sits right above one thumb, the tufty white hairs on the lower finger-joints, the cracked, dirty nails. And a pure white wedding band; almost hidden between grey folds of skin. Mrs Tucker doesn’t say whose hands they are, but she doesn’t need to, it doesn’t matter. He opens it, sees that Craig’s done a good job in making it look like a book you’d buy in an actual store – the title page, the index, the short biography of his grandmother – all of it. She’s written him a message, too, or do you call that a dedication? It sits right below the title, in beautiful, swirly handwriting. _“To Sir Lancelot of the Coffee Pot, on his Seventeenth Birthday,”_ the message reads, and Craig snorts out loud when he sees it.  
Every single photo is in black and white. Landscapes and portraits, and some that look like those old-timey still-life paintings, where there’s just a table full of food and flowers, or an old plow resting against the wall of a shed. There are some pictures of the Tucker family too, that almost look like holiday snapshots. Mr Tucker holding Tricia up in the air, laughing as he suddenly turns to face his own mother behind the camera. There’s one of Craig and his mom on the opposite page, from when he was maybe seven or eight. Little Craig proudly holds up a toad he’s caught, and Mrs Tucker recoils in horror. Best of all, they’ve juxtaposed two pictures of Mr Tucker in there – one taken while he was just a little kid, his face smeared with dirt, and one that could’ve been taken yesterday. In both of them, he’s looking straight at you, giving the finger. The titles are “Thomas, then” and “Thomas, now”, which makes Tweek laugh out loud.  
“This is…” he shakes his head in wonder, because it’s all so professional, but so personal too, “Are you _sure_ it’s okay for me to have it?”  
Craig’s grandma laughs then, and walks around the table so she can grab Tweek’s face between her strong, gnarled hands and give him a dry kiss on the forehead. “I can’t _give_ these away,” she says, laughing again. “I dragged all the boxes in the guest room, and just draped a tablecloth over the top! So I’m happy _you_ seem to like it, Sir Lancelot.”  
“I _love_ it,” Tweek tells her, wide-eyed. “Thank you so much!”  
“I bet _I_ could sell it,” Dad suddenly says, and he looks dead serious when Tweek twists his neck to stare at him. “What? It’s a coffee table book, and we sell coffee! If you let me put a few copies by the till, Mrs Tucker, I’ll tell people they can have a discount on the book with the purchase of any single coffee. Then I’ll invent a markdown, and charge them whatever it is you want to sell it for. Worth a try, right?”  
“Ooh, that’s a good idea,” Mom chimes in, smacking Dad lightly on his arm. “I’ll use the pricing gun to put two different tags on them, and cross out the fake price!”  
“So beautiful,” Dad says, pulling Mom right into his lap while she giggles, “So sneaky!”  
Tweek shakes his head as he watches his parents grin at each other, delighted with their little scheme. Meanwhile, Craig is saying, “It won’t hurt to try, right,” and giving his grandma a hopeful smile that literally melts her right in front of Tweek’s eyes.  
“ _Only_ if you two agree to take a commission.” Mrs Tucker gives Mom and Dad a stern look. This is one lady who doesn’t take hand-outs.  
“Sure!” Dad sounds _way_ too innocent, like he’ll agree to anything at this point. “We don’t even know if they’ll sell yet, do we,” he adds, which tells Tweek right away that Dad’s going to hard-sell this book to every single customer he serves.  
“Anyway,” Mom slides off Dad’s lap and runs over to her own seat, to start digging around in her bag for something, “This makes our gift look pretty boring, but… Here you go; kiddo!” She tosses it across the table; an oblong box wrapped in, of all things, Yosemite Sam gift paper. There’s bright orange ribbon, too, to go with Yosemite Sam’s eyebrows and moustache, presumably. It’s been shredded up artistically so it looks like a huge pile of curly red hair. “Michael helped me do that fancy ribbon thing,” Mom goes on, while Tweek thinks, Michael? “All I asked him to do was hold his finger on the knot while I tied a bow, but then he told me he used to work in a gift shop on his summer holidays, and isn’t it pretty?”  
Tweek’s not quite sure if “pretty” is the word he’d use, not when there’s a Loony Toons character involved, but at least he’s figured out who she’s talking about. “Craig’s roommate, you mean,” he asks, as he gets up to give Mom a quick hug across the table – and then Dad, too, for good measure. Nobody’s paying attention to them back here anyway, right?  
“Yes, that’s the one! You really lucked out there, Craig,” Mom says, as she finally sits back down, drumming her fingers on the table top. “Well?! Open it already, Tweek!”  
It almost seems a shame to undo that ribbon, but Tweek slips it off one corner anyway, before he sets about ripping Yosemite Sam into bits. “Samsung Galaxy…” his eyes widen as he reads the top of the box, “Mom, we can’t afford this!”  
“Actually, we can,” Dad says, and he sounds very satisfied with himself. “Seems like we’re actually going to make _money_ off our house insurance claim!”  
“We’d both noticed how you’ve been smacking your phone against your leg,” Mom adds, “And you can’t have your phone breaking down, now that you’ve got all these lovely _friends_ to text, right? Not to mention your _boyfriend?_ ”  
“Um,” Tweek says, before he pulls Mom into another hug. This hug lasts for much longer. “Thank you,” he whispers into her shoulder, while Mom hugs him back. 

On the car ride back to the rehab facility, Dad slips a CD into the player; and Tweek groans when he recognises the cover. “Dad, come _onnn!_ ” But, Dad’s already switched the thing to “Play”.  
“Fat and docile, big and dumb,” Dana Lyons sings, over the steady chords of his guitar, “They look so stupid, they aren’t much fun. Cows aren’t fun.”  
On his right side, Mom is smiling and bobbing her head, while on his left, Craig is giving Tweek a very puzzled look. All Tweek can offer him is a shrug and an apologetic look, because the very _least_ he can do is not talk over the lyrics – it’ll be _marginally_ less embarrassing if Craig and his grandma know what this song is about, once his parents start belting out the chorus. Marginally.  
Dana Lyons drawls his way through the first bunch of verses, about how there’s one cow that’s different, who reads Che Guevara’s diaries and incites the other cows to rebel against the humans. Craig, Tweek can’t help but notice, is actually _smiling_. In the front seat, Mrs Tucker suddenly sits up straight. “I remember this,” she says, just as the final line before the chorus rings out in the Datsun: “We are free-roving bovines, we run free today!” And before he knows it, Mom’s wound her arm around his, and Tweek can hear himself sing right along with her and Dad:  
“We will fight for bovine freedom, And hold our large heads high! We will run free with the Buffalo, or diiiieee! Cows with guns.”  
Next to him, Craig tips his head back and laughs helplessly. “I, I love it,” he wheezes, and pulls Tweek close so he can nuzzle his burning cheek, even though the car is literally crammed full of their family members. In spite of how deathly embarrassed he is; Tweek can feel himself smiling, too.  
The chorus isn’t hard to remember, so by the time it rolls around again, Craig _and_ his grandma join in. Tweek slips out of Mom’s grip and in under Craig’s arm, his ear pressed against Craig’s chest. It vibrates when he sings, and even though Craig sounds nasal and he’s slightly off-key, his voice still makes Tweek’s toes curl up in the _best_ way. Tweek’s heart is practically bouncing around inside his ribcage, because he can’t remember ever having heard Craig sing before, which is crazy. They’ve been in the same class for _so_ many years; surely he’d have heard Craig singing at _some_ point? Or maybe, he suddenly thinks, maybe Craig’s self-conscious about singing, just like how he’s self-conscious about dancing? That would be kind of cute, Tweek decides, while the song goes on and the cows turn police cars over and set fire to _twelve_ McDonalds. He’s heard this song _so_ many times – same as how he’s heard the story about how Dad used to play it at his vegetarian club meetings, back when he and Mom first met each other. How sometimes; or maybe most times, it would just be the two of them, but they’d still sing the cow song together anyway. Smiling at each other across a school desk piled with handwritten recipes and cookbooks from the town library. Apparently they _didn’t_ dance to it at their wedding party, but that was probably just because Granddad put his foot down.  
Nestled safely under Craig’s arm, Tweek lets his eyes slip shut. It’s only a short drive; he knows they won’t have much time left together. It hits him suddenly – maybe _that’s_ why Dad’s playing this stupid song. So it’ll be a fun trip back, rather than a sad one. 

After they’ve seen Craig and Mrs Tucker safely back inside the reception area, where the rest of the Tuckers are waiting, and where Craig immediately climbs out of the wheelchair and pulls Tweek into a shaky goodbye hug… after all that, it’s time to pick up their overnight bags from the Ashram, where Dad points out the aerial yoga guy from a distance and actually flips him off while he’s got his back turned! It’s just got to be Craig’s influence, even if Dad’s barely hung out with him at all, now that Tweek thinks about it. That’s when the three of them climb back into the Datsun, and Dad takes them back towards South Park.  
“Remember when we picked you up from the hospital,” Mom asks. She’s opted to stay in the back seat with Tweek, even though the passenger seat’s free now.  
“Mm,” Tweek replies, nodding as he pries the cover off his old Huawei, to get the SIM card out.  
“Feels like that was a hundred years ago, doesn’t it?”  
He looks up then, almost dropping his old phone on the floor. “Yeah,” he mutters, realizing how crazy it is that they’re all here together in their creaky old family car, after what he almost did. How crazy it is that his parents have forgiven and accepted everything. “Thanks for…” Tweek shrugs, because words will never do, not for something this big, “You know.”  
“So how embarrassing were we,” Dad pipes up from the driver’s seat, “On a scale from one to _twenty?_ ”  
“I think you _broke_ the scale,” Tweek replies, channelling his best deadpan Craig voice.  
Dad’s still laughing when Mom’s phone goes off, and she smiles, saying, “It’s Linda!” It takes Tweek a minute to remember that she’s talking about Token’s mom. “Linda, hi! We’re on the motorway!” She sinks back into the seat, nodding to herself and making little “I’m listening,” sounds. Tweek leans his head against the window, staring out at the trees flashing by so fast; they almost look like one solid green-and-brown stripe.  
He lets his eyes slip shut, imagines he can still feel Craig’s body-heat emanating from the seat beneath him, from the glass pressed against his cheek. The rest of the guys will go see him tomorrow, and Tweek’s not sure if he’s supposed to tag along – not after he’s had Craig to himself for so many hours today. But if he flat-out asks them, he knows they’ll all insist he should come, anyway – even if, deep down, they might not want him to. Maybe if he texts Token later, and makes it sound all casual when he asks…?  
“Token,” Mom suddenly says, and Tweek sits bolt upright with a yelp that makes Dad swerve and swear. “I _said,_ we need to swing by your friend Token,” Mom repeats, shaking her head a little. Exasperated but fond. “Linda ordered some towels, and they came in today. For Roger and Clyde,” she adds, when Tweek can only stare in confusion. “The Valmers are in on it, too, isn’t that great? That towel pyre is drawing closer every day!”  
“Right,” Tweek says, trying to make it sound like he never forgot about Mom’s plan to replace every single towel in the Donovans’ house. “Just, uh, just don’t mention it’s my birthday, okay? It’ll just be awkward,” he adds, when Dad makes a surprised noise and Mom’s eyebrows shoot up and disappear under her fringe. “I mean, I haven’t been friends with them for _that_ long, so…”  
“We won’t say a thing,” Dad says, and Tweek can’t help but sigh in relief. “Listen to your husband, Helen,” he adds, in such a close copy of Granddad’s voice that Mom bursts into startled laughter. At least _Dad_ gets it.  
And even though Mom still looks like she thinks Tweek’s being weird, she still shrugs and says, “Okay, if that’s what you want. You didn’t take a Xanax after dim sum, did you,” she adds, like the topic of his birthday is done and dusted now.  
“I’ll take one right now!” Tweek instantly feels a _lot_ calmer. He leans over to slide the hat-rack off so he can just pull his backpack out of the trunk. He’s getting better at this stuff; keeping the pills _and_ a bottle of water in there. Even _Craig’s_ been sworn to secrecy about his birthday; so now Tweek knows for sure that the rest of the gang will _never_ find out. 

“Are they even home,” Tweek asks, as Dad carefully guides the Datsun up the gravel path. It’s getting dark earlier and earlier these days; by now dusk is well underway. But the gravel’s mostly white, and the lamps that line the path every few meters make it look like something out of a fairy tale. Like they’re driving up a road paved with silver.  
“Of course they are,” Mom says, with a dismissive wave of her hand, as Dad pulls up outside a double garage. But the house, which Tweek can see from here, seems totally dark. It just sits there, like a huge, blind toad, squatting over the silvery road. “Maybe they just had a power outage?”  
“A place like this would have its own backup generator,” Dad tells her, as he climbs out of the car and stretches his arms above his head. Tweek can hear the quiet clicks as Dad pops first one shoulder, then the other. “Not to mention, the outside lights are still on? Unless _they_ run on a different system,” he adds, almost like he’s thinking to himself.  
“Don’t trip over anything,” Mom says, giving Tweek a quick poke with her finger, before she climbs out of the car and gasps at how cold it’s suddenly become. Tweek tosses her jacket out after her before he follows, tugging his parka over his head before following his parents up to the house. Dad hasn’t even bothered locking the Datsun, but why would he, somewhere like this? If anybody broke in here to steal a car, the worst thing they’d do to the Datsun is hotwire it, to move it out of the way.  
By the time he’s caught up with them, Dad’s pressed the doorbell twice – there’s no response. “Power can’t be out if the doorbell’s working,” he says, just as Mom presses the door handle down.  
“It’s open,” she says, as the door slides open, revealing nothing but solid, inky darkness. “Tweek! You go in first, okay? Token’s _your_ friend,” she adds, pushing Tweek in front of her while she steps around Dad to literally hide behind his back.  
“Uh,” Tweek says, and takes a tentative step over the threshold. “Hello?” He takes a second step, heart beating like crazy now. “Is, is anybody home?”  
Suddenly, light erupts all around him. Like an explosion! Tweek screams and jumps backwards, nearly knocking his parents down the steps, though Dad catches him at the last second – almost like he was _expecting…?_  
“Surprise,” someone is shouting, a chorus of someones, and now that his eyes have adjusted to the light, Tweek can see them all. There’s Jimmy, doubled over laughing so hard, you’d half expect his crutches to just slide out from under him and land the guy face-down on the floor. There’s Token, holding up one side of a handmade sheet banner and doing all sorts of facial contortions in his efforts to _not_ laugh. There’s Nicole, holding up the other half of the banner, which reads “HAPPY BIRTHDAY TWEEK!!!” with each letter a different colour. There’s Bebe in a red dress, giggling, running over to give him a quick hug, and Clyde, still wearing that uniform shirt from his dad’s store, complete with the nametag pinned above his heart.  
“C’mere, you little spaz!” Clyde grabs Tweek’s arm and drags him inside the room, and his laugh is loud and booming. Scott Malkinson’s there too, with one arm around each of the Stoley twins, though there’s no sign of Red, or Bradley, or any of the Goths. Their parents are standing off to one side; the Blacks _and_ the Valmers, but no Mr Donovan – he’s probably still at work.  
“You, you tricked me!” Twisting in Clyde’s grip, Tweek turns to stare, wide-eyed, at his parents, who are shrugging their coats off and accepting a wineglass each from Mr Black.  
“We sure did,” Dad replies, grinning. He raises his glass in a silent toast, before he pours about half the contents into Mom’s glass.  
“But nobody was supposed to find _out,_ ” Tweek wails, as Bebe pulls on his other arm.  
“Why not,” Bebe asks, sounding genuinely puzzled. All around them, the room suddenly goes very quiet. Even Jimmy’s managed to get his mirth under control, and is giving Tweek the most puzzled look.  
“Gah! Because! Because then, it’s like – gnk – like I’m _forcing_ you guys to do something for me, and – ngh –”  
“Tweek,” Token says, very calmly, as he lets his half of the homemade banner flutter to the floor. “Maybe you should try to get used to the idea that people _like_ you?”  
While Tweek’s still reeling from that, Token comes over, and puts his hands on Tweek’s shoulders. “We should have been friends _years_ ago,” he says, suddenly very serious. “So think of this as, as making up for all the birthdays that we missed?”  
Tweek realizes his mouth has slipped open. But his heartbeat is slowing down, too, and Token’s looking down at him with the kindest smile on his face. And over Token’s shoulder, he can see that Jimmy’s hurrying over, faster than Tweek’s seen him move in days, while Nicole is done balling up the sheet banner. She carefully puts the bundle down on that table underneath the big mirror, on her way over to the rest of them, smiling and shaking her head. Now Jimmy’s propped up on one crutch, mussing Tweek’s hair, and Clyde’s slapping his back as carefully as he can manage, while Tweek just throws his arms around Token, startling a yelp out of him.  
“Thank you,” Tweek whispers into Token’s purple shirt, so soft it’s got to be silk, while the rest of his friends press in close, laughing as they all join in the hug. 

“I baked you a Snickers cake,” Mrs Valmer says proudly, pulling Tweek over to the big dining table by one sleeve. “You know, to commemorate how you saved Craig with a Snickers bar!”  
“ _Half_ a Snickers bar,” Tweek mutters, as if _that_ makes any kind of difference. “Um, I mean, thanks?”  
At least Nicole can take what’s left of that one home, he thinks distantly, eyes widening as he takes in all the cakes on display. There are _five_ cakes, holy crap!  
“This one’s from us,” Mrs Black is saying, pointing to a huge, layered sponge-cake, “Though I have to admit we just ordered it from the bakery at the mall!” A single slice has been cut out and set to one side, to show how each layer of sponge is a different colour. Purple at the bottom, then blue, green, yellow, orange and red – just like a rainbow.  
“ _We_ have an actual Enterprise cake mould,” Esther drawls, flicking her thumb at the cake that’s shaped like a spaceship; and covered with _silver_ frosting, “Because _someone_ is such a damn nerd. That’s just silver food colouring, by the way. It only _looks_ poisonous.”  
“And I brought this one, that my mom made,” Scott says, pointing to an apple cake dusted with what looks like cinnamon. “For, ah, purely selfish reasons. It’s made with artificial sweetener and coconut flour, so I can eat it without going into diabetic shock!” He grins at Tweek, giving him a double thumbs-up when all Tweek can do is stare at Scott in horror. Diabetic shock, Jesus!  
“This one time, in the fourth grade,” Kevin pipes up, “Leo Stotch punched Scott in the nose because he was, ahem, “Sick o’ hearin’ ‘bout yer damn diabetes!” Right, Scott?” His attempt at a Southern accent is so awful that Tweek can’t help but laugh, even though it’s not something he feels good about laughing at.  
“So poor Scott’s been all self-conscious about it ever since,” Esther chimes in, ducking away as Scott makes a playful grab for her.  
“I, I thought Stotch never picked on anyone,” Tweek says, thinking, I was in fourth grade with these guys, and I don’t remember that. At all! Was I too busy hiding from everyone to notice?  
“Only me,” Scott shrugs, “And only sometimes. Getting bigger helped.”  
“I’ll try some diabetes cake,” Clyde says, as he leans in with a plate. “My grandma has this saying,” he goes on, “That’s like… Father’s over Mother, and Mother’s over me, but I’m above the cat? It doesn’t even rhyme in _Dutch,_ ” he adds, frowning with concentration while he’s carving himself a slice, “But you get what it means, right?”  
“I, I think so,” Tweek says, accepting a piece of Snickers cake on a plate from Mrs Valmer, who’s now also picked up a knife. “Thanks! It’s like… everybody kicks downwards?”  
“Bingo.” Clyde holds the knife out, hilt-first, to Scott. “Sure McCormick seems to think you’re his nemesis or whatever, but Cartman only picked on _you_ because he thought it’d be easy, you know?”  
It’s so casual, the way he says it, but Tweek almost drops his piece of cake on the floor. Can it really be that simple? That Cartman only went after Tweek because he was the most convenient target, and _not_ because there’s something fundamentally _off_ about him? Is _that_ why he and McCormick never went after someone like Jimmy? Not because Jimmy was friends with Craig and the other guys, with the all the protection and backup _that_ implied, but because they could tell that Jimmy’s always had the guts to stand up for himself? He suddenly remembers Craig’s words, from over the phone - _There’s nothing wrong with you._ Maybe Craig was more right than he knew, back then.  
Tweek feels a huge grin start to spread across his own face. Clyde’s just given him the best birthday present in the _world,_ and he doesn’t even seem to realize it. He’s just standing there, grinning and chewing in his ugly polo shirt with the… name tag…  
“Clyde,” Tweek says, as an idea suddenly hits him like a freight train. “Wear that tomorrow! To see Craig!”  
Clyde looks puzzled. “This shirt,” he asks, still with his mouth full, pulling at the fabric a little.  
“That name-tag!”  
Tweek can literally time it down to the _second_ that Clyde gets it. First his eyes go all wide, then he swallows, and then he starts to laugh, just like a little kid. “Oh my God, that could work! That could totally _work!_ ” 

It turns out Snickers cake is way nicer than eating an actual Snickers, especially when you can have it with coffee to offset the sweetness. Tweek might even have gone for a second slice, if Bebe hadn’t insisted he should try the chocolate cake next, the one she and Nicole baked for him together. Just like last Sunday, when everybody came to help fix their house up, the adults have formed one group, and the kids a second one – but, since the Blacks’ living room is like, the size of a modest airplane hangar, there are two sofa groups in here. One over by the TV, which the kids have claimed, even though, to Tweek’s secret relief, nobody’s thought to turn the TV on – it’s so hard to concentrate on what people are saying, if there’s also a TV in the room. Their parents have occupied the second sofa group, and even though they’re mostly too far away for Tweek to hear what anybody’s saying, he can tell that his parents are having fun.  
“Tweek!” Jimmy suddenly drops into the seat next to him on the couch, and Tweek’s _proud_ of himself when he only lets out a tiny squeak. “I had most _awesome_ dream about your m-mom!”  
The sip of coffee he just took suddenly goes all the way up Tweek’s nose. “WHAT?”  
“We w-were at your coffee shop, and she was m-making me some kind of new coffee?” Jimmy frowns as he tries to remember. “A carrot c-cake latte, that’s what it w-was! And she was _only_ wearing o-one of those green aprons…”  
It takes Tweek about thirty seconds or so to regain the ability to speak. “You had a sexy dream… about _my mother,_ ” he hisses, doing his very best to at least keep his voice down so Mom and Dad won’t hear this. Because Jesus, they’re not sitting _that_ far away!  
“I like older women,” Jimmy shrugs, like he hasn’t just dropped a verbal atom bomb at all.  
“Happy birthday to _me,_ eh,” Tweek mutters, unable to suppress a shudder.  
“ _This_ asshole,” Token takes the last open spot on the three-seater, though he practically has to fold his legs up and sit on them to fit there. He even gives Jimmy a little nudge in the ribs with his foot, since he’s only wearing socks indoors, “This asshole, who didn’t even _ask_ to take part in gym yesterday, because by then he’d literally turned _green_ from exhaustion, he slept until three PM today!”  
“B-best sleep I ever had!” Jimmy grins over at Tweek, who suddenly realizes exactly what’s different about him. “But I _was_ kidding, about that dream. N-not that your mom _isn’t_ a f-fox,” he adds, prompting Token to kick him again.  
“Your stutter’s almost gone,” Tweek blurts out, then covers his mouth, eyes widening as he realizes what he’s gone and said.  
But Jimmy doesn’t seem to take offence at all. “Isn’t it _great,_ ” he says, before he takes a big bite of Snickers cake, grinning while he chews.  
“The stutter gets worse the more tired he is.” Token’s nodding, like Tweek hasn’t just said _the_ most awful thing. “So if _somebody,_ ” he gives Jimmy a very pointed, very _Token_ look, “Starts looking after himself, and maybe gives up on this idea of a weekly school paper that only _he_ gets to do the final edits on…?”  
There’s suddenly a look of real fear on Jimmy’s face, as he swallows his whole mouthful in one gulp and frantically starts shushing Token. “My m-mom’s gonna _k-kill_ me if she f-f-finds out about that,” he whispers fiercely, which Token counters with, “Nah, the whole _idea_ is that you’re not supposed to die young. Asshole,” he adds, though he does keep his voice down.  
“Hey, Tweek,” the Stoley twins suddenly say, talking in perfect sync. This seems to surprise _them_ more than anybody else, as the siblings both turn their heads sharply to glare at each other. “Don’t _do_ that,” Kevin mutters, while Esther snaps, “Stupid twin bullshit.”  
It’s impossible not to laugh at them. “This is what happens when I hang out with _him_ for a whole day straight,” Esther growls, before she pulls an envelope out of her back pocket. “Anyway, here. We got you a present.” She tosses it at Tweek, who manages to catch it with one hand before it lands on the floor.  
“How do you feel about being painted blue,” Kevin chimes in, which makes Tweek freeze up.  
“Uh? I’ve never really… thought about that?” There are two A4 pages crammed into the envelope, both with what turns out to be an e-ticket printed on them. “Denver Star Trek con…?”  
“That’s the _worst_ case of Indian giving I’ve ever seen,” Token mutters, as he climbs right over the edge of the sofa. “Stay put, Jimmy and I have something _way_ better for you!”  
“We thought we could do a really _big_ cosplay group this year,” Kevin’s saying, and he sounds a little bit like Dad does, when he’s trying to convince a customer that of _course_ they want a pastry with their coffee. “And now that we’re friends with you, we’d have _two_ Andorians! Bebe went as an Andorian last year, and _she_ didn’t react to the makeup at all, so –”  
“It’s because you have blonde hair,” Esther cuts her brother off. “Look, if it were up to me, I’d do you up as a genderbent version of Black Canary, because I’m all _about_ the DC babes, and Red looks hot as _shit_ when she’s dressed like Poison Ivy. Yeah, I _know_ she’s _your_ girlfriend,” Esther rolls her eyes at Kevin when he gives her a dirty look. “But anyway, it’s only the second annual Trek con in Denver, which is why we got all the DC and Game of Thrones cosplays out of our systems at Comic Con this summer.”  
“Pop Culture Con,” Kevin sullenly corrects her, then just about jumps out of his own skin when Tweek vaults off the couch and hugs them both at once.  
“Are, are you _sure_ you’d want someone like me along,” he asks, chewing his lip. “I mean, it’s super sweet of you guys, and I’ve never even been to one of these, but I don’t know _anything_ about that Trek stuff!”  
“You’ll be fine,” Esther assures him with a wave of her hand. “Scott and Clyde always come along,” she adds, “And they’ve never watched it either, but they’re our Klingons. And I think Bebe’s pretty much convinced Nicole to come, so it’s not like you’ll be bored. And, ah, the second ticket’s for Craig. If he wants it. Or, you know, whoever you want to bring.”  
“D-don’t look at _me,_ ” Jimmy says, holding his hands up like a highway robbery victim. “I’ve g-got _zero_ interest in that crap.”  
“Craig doesn’t mind a bit of Trek, though,” Kevin says, as he sinks down on the carpet, folding his legs in the Lotus position. “In small doses, anyway. I mean, that’s probably the main reason he’s tolerated _me_ all these years,” he adds, with a nervous little laugh.  
It’s an odd choice of words – or, maybe not so odd, Tweek thinks, as he remembers what Bradley said last week. About how Craig had refused to come out and play, when Token and Clyde were playing superheroes with him. “That’ll be Craig’s last weekend in Denver,” he says, after some quick mental calculus. “And he’s already bored over there. I’ll persuade him. Just maybe don’t try to paint _Craig_ blue?”  
Kevin and Esther start laughing at exactly the same time – twins, right? – and talking over one another. “We’re not _insane,_ ” Kevin snorts, while Esther giggles, “He can just be a human!” “Tell Craig we’ll make him a captain, okay,” Kevin adds, like that’s supposed to sweeten the deal.  
“You know, Jimmy,” Esther takes the seat Tweek’s just vacated, tucking one leg under her butt and staring intently at Jimmy, “It’s a shame you don’t want to come, ‘cause you’d make a really good Trill. All I’d need to do is paint spots on you from here to here,” she draws an invisible line on herself, from temple to collarbone, “Your hair colour’s perfect for it, and it’s a super unusual cosplay. You’d get lots of attention – female attention,” she adds, raising one eyebrow. “We’ll even give you a _yellow_ uniform.”  
“Oh, come _on,_ ” Jimmy says, making a show of rolling his eyes – but, Tweek knows him well enough by now to see that he’s intrigued. 

Throwing Tweek a party wasn’t enough for his friends, it seems, because Esther and Kevin aren’t the only ones who’ve brought him a present. Token’s clearly itching to go first, but then Bebe yells, “Clyde, grab him,” and once Token’s been immobilized, Nicole tickles him until he’s doubled over and wheezing, and begging her to stop.  
“You guys really didn’t have to,” Tweek says, blushing as he gets handed a little round package from Nicole, and a square flat one from Bebe. He’s sitting on the floor, with everyone else in a circle around him – either on the floor, or on the three-seater and the closest easy-chair, which Scott’s gone and claimed.  
“Don’t be stupid,” Bebe says firmly, “And open Nicole’s first! She made them herself!”  
Holy crap, a handmade present – Tweek does his best to be careful, ripping the paper off, so he won’t accidentally rip whatever it is in half. He’s confused at first – they’re little round things, covered in swirling patterns picked out in green, white and blue thread. Each one’s different, he realizes, as he looks closer. One’s got circles of colour repeating inwards, another one’s shaped like a flower, a third one almost looks like a snowflake… “They’re beautiful,” he whispers, “But, uh, what are they?”  
Nicole laughs, not offended at all. “They’re coasters,” she says, “To keep in your room, you know? I noticed how you had mug rings everywhere,” she adds, smiling. “I’d already made these, or I would’ve gone with a Snickers theme, you know? I’ve never crocheted a Snickers bar before, but I guess I could’ve made it really long, like a tablecloth maybe?”  
Tweek laughs while he hugs her. “Seriously, enough with the Snickers! These are perfect, thank you so much!”  
“Mine next, mine next,” Bebe says, as she picks her flat package up off the couch and practically shoves it in Tweek’s face.  
Bebe’s bought him stationery. _Proper_ stationery, and two whole sets of it! One with what’s either hamsters or guinea pigs on it – Tweek still can’t tell the difference – and the other set’s space themed, with stars and red-tipped moon rockets floating around the lined bit in the middle. “They’re for writing to Craig,” Bebe says, as if that weren’t already obvious, and Tweek’s so overwhelmed, he almost starts to cry. He hugs her even tighter than he hugged Nicole, until Bebe smacks his arm and says, “Tweek, it’s only stationery! I just felt my _rib_ shift,” and then he has to laugh and let her go.  
“Finally!” Token leans over from his spot on the couch, where Nicole is perched on his lap, and dangles a big, flat package in front of Tweek’s nose. “This is from Craig.”  
“From Craig?” Tweek blinks in confusion. “But we agreed he didn’t have to… And he _promised_ me he wouldn’t tell…!”  
“Don’t worry, he d-didn’t,” Jimmy assures him, “But Token’s class rep, r-remember?”  
“I have a PDF of everyone’s details,” Token clarifies, “And that includes birthdays.”  
“Our feelings were all hurt that you didn’t tell us,” Clyde pipes up, before he reaches over and gives Tweek a careful shove.  
“Sorry,” Tweek begins, and he can feel his cheeks turning red again, “I didn’t mean to –”  
“Open the damn thing,” Token cuts him off, so eager he’s practically bouncing Nicole on his leg.  
It’s probably a joke present, Tweek thinks, as he carefully starts to peel the tape off. Maybe they printed out a picture of Craig’s face, and drew like, a dartboard on top of it, or something? He peels back the paper as slowly as he can manage, while Token literally whines like a puppy – is he even _aware_ that he’s doing it? – and Jimmy’s leg keeps bopping against his back, while he mutters, “Come _on!_ ”  
It’s when he flips it over and sees that it’s a blue notebook with an elastic strap, also blue, holding it closed – the kind you can get from any stationery store for a couple of dollars – and Clyde suddenly yowls, “You _didn’t,_ ” that Tweek understands exactly what he’s holding.  
“Did you guys _read_ this…?”  
“Of course,” Jimmy says, then adds a very belated, “Not,” when Token hisses and nudges him.  
“What’s the big deal,” Scott asks, leaning in to get a better look.  
“That’s Craig’s original, handwritten poetry,” Token drawls, and then it’s all Tweek can do to hold on to the book, as Bebe, Esther _and_ Kevin all pounce on him at once.  
“Craig wrote _poetry?_ ”  
“I gotta see this!”  
“Hand it over, Tweek!”  
And then there’s Clyde’s voice, all but drowning in the din, as he yells, “Don’t read it, okay? Please!”  
Tweek doubles over, clutching the notebook to his chest with one arm, head frantically moving from side to side as he searches for a way out. He gets an idea, and quickly shoves the notebook down the front of his shirt – good thing he remembered to tuck it in today! – before he scrambles between Scott’s legs on all fours, and then bolts for the staircase.  
Someone – Jimmy’s dad? – is saying, “What on Earth…?” and Mom’s shouting his name, but Tweek’s not about to slow down for anybody. He dives inside the first unlocked door he finds, which it turns out leads to a toilet, and locks it behind him before he’s even bothered to turn the light on in there.  
Outside, he can hear Token and Bebe shouting his name, laughing and panting. They’ll work out where he is soon enough, so Tweek just shouts, “I’m asking Craig for permission first!” Then he pulls his new phone out from his back pocket, before he slides down the door stretching his legs out across the bathmat.  
“Hey honey,” Craig says, after he picks up on the second ring. Honey, huh? It’s so effortlessly cute that Tweek can feel himself start to blush again. “You miss me so soon, or what?”  
Tweek opens his mouth to reply, but that’s when he happens to look up, and see the _thing_ hanging over the door. So what comes out is a scream instead.  
“Tweek? Babe, are you okay?” Craig sounds so worried, and Tweek feels awful, because was it really that bad? It just startled him, but…  
“Who puts a tribal mask in their _toilet,_ anyway,” Tweek blurts out, and he can feel his blush intensifying as he hears Craig’s relieved laughter on the other end. But that thing they’ve hung up there, seriously – who wants to look at a grinning, oblong triangle-head while they’re taking a dump?!  
“So you’re at Token’s,” Craig says, sounding a little pleased with himself.  
“Yeah, um,” Tweek clears his throat, “They threw me a birthday party?”  
On the other side of the door, Token’s started knocking, saying, “Tweek, you in there?”  
Meanwhile, Bebe’s trying a different tactic: “Tweek, what if I really need the bathroom? I could be on my _period_ for all you know!”  
“Come on, you two,” Nicole is saying, “Just leave him alone.”  
“This place is huge,” Tweek yells back, “And I know for a _fact_ there’s more than one toilet!”  
“You tell ‘em, babe.” Craig’s smiling now, Tweek can totally tell from the way his voice has gone all soft. Damn it; that just makes this ten times harder to say.  
“Craig, listen, I…” He squeezes his eyes shut. He can totally do this! “It’s not really Clyde’s fault, okay? But, ah, Token and Jimmy just sort of… found your poetry?”  
“What,” Craig says, and then he goes very, very quiet.  
“They wrapped it up like a birthday present, I had no idea, I’m so sorry,” Tweek babbles, “But I’ve got the notebook, and I’ve locked myself in a bathroom, and…” He draws a deep breath. It’s now or never. “And would it be okay for me to read it,” Tweek asks, squeezing his eyes shut.  
For the longest time, Craig doesn’t say anything at all. “Ah,” he begins, then clears his throat. “I mean, I kind of wrote them for you? So if,” he clears his throat again, “If maybe you could try to ignore how bad they are?”  
“How could they be bad? You’re literally amazing at _anything_ you do!”  
Craig groans. “When you say shit like _that,_ honey, it’ll be twice as bad when you read it and see how hard it all sucks.”  
Tweek laughs, as quietly as he can manage. “I’m opening the book now, okay?” He slips his phone up between his chin and his ear, pinning it in place. “Is there one you’d want me to start with?”  
“Just read whatever,” Craig mutters, sounding like there’s nothing he wants to do more than hang up, right now. “And don’t tell me, okay? Okay,” he repeats, but Tweek can’t seem to answer him. Because he’s just opened the book on the first page, and right there, he recognizes those lines Craig pretended to make up for him – were those from the _first_ poem he wrote? Maybe _that’s_ why he had them memorized? “Tweek,” Craig is saying, “Honey?”  
But Tweek is too busy reading to reply, his eyes growing wider while his lips silently move:  


_Your heart was supposed to be_  
_As brave and fearless as the sea_  
_Every bite and every sting,_  
_Your heart could take everything_  
_Currents might pull you along_  
_Waves break, but your heart stayed strong_

_Then those bastards set about_  
_Putting your bright fire out_  
_Made you bend your golden head_  
_Beat you ‘till you cringed and bled_  
_While I just watched from afar_  
_As they tried to sink your star_

_But I’ll try to catch that star in my hand,_  
_And pull you to safety, and warmth, and dry land_  
_Because there is nothing that I would not do_  
_I’d raise up the sunken Atlantis for you_  
_Since your heart was always supposed to be_  
_A treasure that only belonged to me._

“Wow,” Tweek whispers when he’s done, reverently closing the notebook and pressing it against his chest. “You really love me, huh?”  
“Slow on the uptake, aren’t you,” Craig drawls, before he ruins the effect by blurting, “So, do you like it? Which one did you read?”  
“The one about the sea.” It’s still impossible to raise his voice above a whisper, not after what he’s just read. “I love it. And you,” he adds, before he can lose his nerve completely.


	31. I know where he lives

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a little PSA: you may have noticed that this chapter bears a certain resemblance to this story:  
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/19367377  
> by sonofthanatos - and if you haven't read it yet, it's great, go read! We often toss ideas back and forth, and this was one of those ideas. Since he published his story first, I asked for permission to use the same elements in mine, and did my absolute best not to make it too similar. So please, don't think I'd go and do something as shitty as commit idea-theft from the very first friend I made on AO3!  
> Thankyou for reading, now please enjoy the new chapter. *bows*

A week and a half passes by, without anything awful happening _at all._ Tweek almost thinks it’s scary, how things are not just going back to normal, but settling at something that’s, like, seven levels _above_ normal. He writes _three_ letters to Craig on his new stationery – which Craig, predictably, gets a huge kick out of – and gets to visit him a total of four times, too. And there are phone-calls, of course, sneaky, endless phone-calls that Tweek has to take under his duvet, whispering and laughing as quietly as he can manage. And literally _every_ time he sees Craig in person, he’s looking stronger, doing better. The only thing that worries Tweek; is that this happy streak can’t last – it’s too good to last – and that there will be a hefty karmic down-payment sometime in the future. But, he’s almost too happy to care.

Dad’s phone goes off while he and Tweek are driving back from Jimmy’s, playing that little snippet of Journey of the Sorcerer that he’s used as his ringtone since forever. Not because Dad’s ever been into the Eagles in any big way, but because that was the intro tune for his beloved Hitch-Hiker’s Guide to the Galaxy radio show.  
“Tweek, get that, will you,” Dad says, only taking his hand off the steering wheel for a second so he can toss his phone in Tweek’s general direction. The name on the screen says “Roger”, and it takes Tweek a second to remember who that is.  
“Uh, hello? Mr Donovan,” he asks, letting his gaze slide out the window. It’s so dark out there on the freeway now; you can barely see anything but the tail-lights of the cars in front of them. “Dad’s driving, so he can’t talk right now.”  
“Tweek!” Mr Donovan doesn’t sound annoyed about that at all. “Hey, ah, I need a favour. Can you ask your dad if he’s got a jumpstart cable? I’ve been trying to get the Rabbit started, but she’s dead it the water. Looks like the battery’s gone flat.”  
“Yeah, sure, hang on – Dad?” Tweek quickly explains, and Dad nods, saying, “I’ve always got one. Tell him we’ll be half an hour, max.”  
“I heard that,” Mr Donovan says, on the other end. “I’ll be back upstairs in the store, okay? Might as well get the payslips out of the way, while I’m stuck here!”

It ends up taking more than half an hour, though, because there’s been an accident. According to the cop who’s watching the roadblock, nobody’s actually died, though. But some lady fell asleep at the wheel, flipped her Ford Station Wagon over – which, naturally, woke her up – and then crawled out of there, completely unharmed. “But we’re still waiting for the tow-truck,” the cop says, jerking his thumb over his shoulder, where Tweek can just about make out the long shape of the overturned car – it looks a bit like a turtle that’s been flipped on its back.  
So there’s nothing for it but to double back through the centre of town, and actually drive _past_ Tweak Bros, which just feels _weird._ “Wave to your mother,” Dad drawls, sounding like he regrets his promise a little bit. “Or actually, could you text her? Just so she won’t heat anything up for us.”  
“Sure,” Tweek mutters, leaning his cheek against the glass while he scrolls through his messages, looking for the last one from Mom. He’s not in any hurry to eat, if he’s being honest – what Mrs Valmer calls a snack is what most people would call a meal. Those cheese sandwiches she’d made for each of them, with sliced tomato, iceberg lettuce, pickled cucumber and oven-fries on the side, was enough to make Tweek unbutton his jeans, and he’d spotted Red discreetly slide her belt off and into her backpack. Jimmy, of course, had been wearing his track-pants, the kind that has buttons all the way up the legs, so he could wrap an icepack around his left knee. The Valmers have one freezer drawer dedicated to just ice packs of various sizes – the really cool ones are the kind you can slide into a bag with a Velcro strap, and just wrap _around_ the joint you’re icing. Red had taken one, to wrap around her sore neck, while Tweek had wrapped another icepack in a towel, taken his socks off, and placed his feet on top.  
“We d-dine in style,” Jimmy had said, wagging his eyebrows while he wrapped another icepack around his right ankle, and Red had toasted him with her glass of apple juice.  
It’s only Thursday night, but the three of them have already wrapped up next week’s paper. This is the one that’ll have the announcement in it about how they’re going bi-weekly from the end of November, to prevent the Esteemed Editor from being drawn and quartered by his own parents. Jimmy’s “Odinsleep” last Saturday had been what alerted his parents to how exhausted he was, and if Tweek’s being honest, that was kind of a relief. Watching Jimmy wear himself out like that… Tweek doesn’t want to _think_ about what could’ve happened, if Jimmy hadn’t had a chance to recuperate on Saturday. This final weekly edition’s also got the results of the Student Council’s contest – Nicole’s entry won, hands down – and a tally Red put together, of how many entries used the paper’s trademarked Craig font. Tweek and Red – and Mrs Valmer, too – all stood behind Jimmy while he hit the “Enter” key and sent the master PDF off to the printers. Just to make _sure_ he couldn’t do any last-minute fixes – if there are any errors, Jimmy’s just going to have to live with them.  
“So, did you text her yet?” Dad sounds like he knows full well that Tweek hasn’t.  
“Gah! Sorry! I’ll do it now!”  
“Roger’s lucky, you know,” Dad says, after Tweek’s finally sent that message off to Mom, “His car’s so old, it was made before they started manufacturing flaws into them. Not like this glorious rust-bucket here!” Dad lovingly slaps the Datsun’s dashboard. “So in theory, he can just keep repairing her into perpetuity.”  
“He told me he’s giving the Rabbit to Clyde, though?”  
This makes Dad laugh, long and hard. “Remember Police Academy? When Hightower rips out the front seat, so he can drive that little Beetle, or whatever it was?”  
“Clyde wouldn’t _do_ that,” Tweek protests, “We’d never all fit, then!”  
“There’s always the trunk.” Dad reaches up to adjust the rear-view mirror, while Tweek groans out loud. “Hey, it was good enough for your sister!”  
The mall’s more or less shut down by the time they pull up in the parking lot out back, the one that’s just for mall staff. It’s empty enough that they spot the Rabbit right away, and Dad can position the Datsun directly opposite it. There’s no sign of Mr Donovan, of course, and even though Dad tries his number twice, there’s no reply.  
“Weird,” Dad mutters, “You’d think he’d be waiting for us.”  
That’s when Tweek spots an elderly security guard and wrenches the passenger door open, jumping out onto the tarmac. “Hey,” he yells, running over. “Sir, excuse me! Can you let us in?” There’s a weird sense of urgency in him, something _more_ than his beans having beans, it’s… It’s this bone-deep knowledge that _something isn’t right._

“Oh yeah, I know Roger Donovan,” the security guard is saying, as he leads them through the eerily empty and dark mall. He’s a wiry little man, with his jaw thrust forward and liver spots on the top of his head, clearly visible through the wispy strands of white hair. A truncheon dangles from the left side of his belt, and a walkie-talkie form the right, thwapping gently against his legs while he walks. It looks insanely uncomfortable, but he doesn’t even seem to notice. “That guy’s always working too much. Always worrying about something!”  
All the escalators have been switched off, but the security guard, whose nametag reads E. Saunders, has a little key to start them up again. So he bends over, agonizingly slowly, and twists that little key, then repeats the process when they’ve ridden up. Dad keeps saying they can just walk up the stairs, but Mr Saunders won’t hear of it, and out comes the little key again. Tweek has to _fight_ himself not to pull his hair and growl. Mr Donovan’s store is only on the third floor, but it feels like it’s taking them _years_ to get up there. But finally, _finally_ they’re riding to the top of the third and last escalator.  
Tweek, who’s riding in front, jerks his head up sharply. “What’s that smell,” he says, turning to look down at Dad.  
“That’s smoke!” Taking the last few steps two at a time, Dad pushes past Tweek, who does his best to keep up with his shorter legs. They pelt down past the shop windows with their faceless dummies, following their noses. Soon, they can see it, too, seeping out from under the glass doors with the shoe store’s logo painted across them.  
Dad gets there first, squeezing his fingers through the gap between the glass doors to try and wrench them open. But, he swears and pulls his hand back almost immediately – it’s the metal lining, Tweek realizes, it must be really hot to the touch. The smoke is a dark grey, almost black, and smells so toxic that they both start to cough. Is that the melting plastic from the shoes?  
“We’ve got to… break the glass,” Dad hacks, looking around wildly for something heavy. There’s a tall trash can close by, but aren’t those welded to the floor or something?  
“Maybe there’s a key!” Tweek chokes those words out while he tugs at Dad’s sleeve, forcing him to turn around and see where Tweek is pointing. They can just see the old security guard now, hurrying up to them while shouting something into the walkie-talkie. “Do you have a key,” he all but screams, running back towards Mr Saunders, who unclips the big key-ring from his belt, and throws it.  
“They’re all marked,” the security guard shouts, and he’s thrown the keys so high that Tweek almost catches the thing with his _face._ He does manage to grab the key-ring out of the air, though, and it’s actually a pretty clever set-up. Lots of little carabiner hooks, like the kind you’d use to go mountain-climbing, each with two keys dangling from it and marked with a name-tag. But they’re not in any alphabetic order or anything, so Tweek wastes precious time skimming through each name, muttering under his breath, “Thompson, Daniels, McKenna, Russ…” Finally, there it is, the key marked “Donovan”. Tweek’s fingers tremble as he slips the hook off the main key-ring; and lets the whole rattling mess drop to the floor with a clang.  
As soon as he’s run over, Dad snatches the keys from his hand, and pulls his sleeve over his fingers before he starts trying them in the locks. The metal must be really, really hot by now, Dad’ll be lucky if he doesn’t get blisters… By some miracle Dad picks the right key for the top lock on the first try. He drops to his knees, unlocking the second one, the one that’s at ankle height, coughing horribly. Tweek follows Dad example, and pulls his parka sleeves down, wrapping them over his hands before he starts to push at the sliding doors. And they move, thank any god that’s listening, they finally move!  
Thick columns of black smoke immediately wash over the two of them, and Tweek instinctively pulls at his collar, to try and tug his sweater up over his nose. It’s almost impossible to see what’s going on in there.  
“Roger?” Dad only manages to call Mr Donovan’s name once, before he doubles over, coughing. How much of that smoke has he already breathed in?  
“Mr Donovan, can you hear us?” Tweek’s really starting to get scared now. His eyes are stinging, brimming with tears.  
They look at each other for just a second, father and son, before they grab each other’s arm, hands locking around elbows, and step inside. Ducking their heads to try to avoid the worst of the smoke, they pull each other rather than talk. Tweek has the advantage, he’s been here before, so he finds himself taking the lead. Guiding Dad towards that door behind the till desk, the one that leads to the… oh shit. The staff room door itself is literally engulfed in flames – fire will go where it’s easier to burn, that’s what Mom’s always said. The till desk is reinforced with a lot of metal, so it’s only _partially_ on fire; but that door is almost nothing but wood. For a second, the panic almost overtakes him completely – and then he remembers what Clyde said, on his little tour. How the shop is circular.  
“There’s another… door!” Tweek hacks out the words, even as he turns around, pulling Dad towards the back of the shop. “Leads right… to his office!”  
Dad nods, just once.  
They run past the racks of burning sneakers and ladies’ shoes, past the foot analysis machine, doubled over and gasping for air. It’s unbearably warm now; Tweek can even feel the metal of his phone starting to heat up, where it sits tucked inside his back pocket. So he pulls his parka over his head, and wordlessly offers it to Dad, who wraps it, quickly and clumsily, around the door handle before he tries it. But of course the door is locked. The parka drops to the floor.  
“Shit,” Dad growls, before he pulls Tweek back, and throws himself shoulder first at the door. It’s not enough, so Tweek joins him on the second throw. And holy _crap,_ it hurts, but somehow Tweek’s added weight made the difference, and the lock pops.  
They stumble into the office, almost thrown inside by their own momentum. Tweek bangs his hip painfully against the computer-desk. But that’s where Mr Donovan is slumped, glasses askew, one side of his face pressed into the keyboard.  
“Roger,” Dad is saying, shaking Mr Donovan’s shoulder, but there’s no reaction. He doesn’t even stop to check if Mr Donovan’s still breathing, just loops his arm, limp like spaghetti, over his own shoulder. “Tweek! Other side!”  
They drag Mr Donovan out between them, Dad carrying most of the weight, Tweek pulling and lifting as best he can. He squeezes his eyes shut until he’s just seeing through the tiniest slit, because his eyeballs literally feel like they’re about to burst into flame any second. His lungs feel like he’s just scooped up a handful of ashes, and _swallowed_ them. Step by agonizing step, they get closer to those glass doors, while the flames practically lick at their feet.  
And then they’re out, sinking to their knees on the promenade and pulling Mr Donovan down with them. Gasping and wheezing, Tweek raises his head, sees four people in black and white uniforms running towards them, carrying what looks like zip-up picnic hampers. Oh, right, those are…  
He tips head-first into the female paramedic’s chest, when she drops down next to him. Two of the others are already turning Mr Donovan over, pulling him up into a sitting position, and the last one must be looking after Dad – right? He can hear Dad coughing over on his right side, coughing like crazy.  
“Breathe into this,” the paramedic shouts, her ponytail slapping against Tweek’s face as she pulls out an oxygen mask from her bag, pressing it over his nose and mouth. Suddenly there’s air! Air never tasted so good before. “You hold onto that now,” she goes on, picking Tweek’s hand up from the floor and holding it up against the mask until she seems to decide he’s able to hold it up on his own. Her fingers fasten straps around the back of his head, tying the mask in place.  
When he twists in her grip, Tweek is just in time to see Mr Donovan wake up, with a huge, rattling gasp. And then he realizes what that other sound was, the one he’s shoved too far back into his subconscious to really notice, until now. Sirens. 

It’s Tweek second time riding in an ambulance, in as many months. Mr Donovan is bad enough off to warrant a stretcher, and a tube down his rapidly swelling throat, to help him breathe. Either the paramedics have given him something, or the whole ordeal is just too much for him, because Mr Donovan quickly slips back into unconsciousness. But Tweek and Dad are both considered well enough to for those folding wall seats. That makes it easier to absorb the oxygen, too. Each of their masks is fitted, via a tube, to a small, grey oxygen cylinder. They look like sports drinks, more than anything. While they’re driving, the paramedics put little clips on their fingertips that kind of resemble clothes pegs, except they’re flat. They are used to measure… something.  
“Other dads… take their son to a baseball game,” Dad wheezes, with a sly, sideways grin.  
Tweek can’t help but laugh underneath his mask, even though it hurts.  
“You’re both in the clear,” one of the male medics assures them, patting each of their shoulders in turn. “We’ll give each of you _one_ more canister; and then do the probe one last time, just to be on the safe side. And we’ll need to do some blood tests, once we’re at the hospital – mostly just so we can say that we’ve done ‘em.” He grins, adding, “You two were very lucky.”  
“Ah, but what about…?” Dad jerks his head over at the stretcher, and Tweek feels his stomach flip over. Mr Donovan isn’t going to die – is he?  
“Your friend’s going to need chest X-rays,” the female paramedic tells him, “Since his exposure was much more prolonged that yours. But chances are, with a couple days’ bed rest, he should be fine.”  
Tweek sags against Dad’s shoulders, dizzy with relief. 

Clyde gets to the hospital before Mom does, running so fast down the corridor that he almost mows down an unsuspecting doctor. Tweek, who’s been looking out for him through the glass window in the door, slips outside and waves. “Clyde,” he calls out, as quietly as he can since there are probably people sleeping on this ward, “Over here!”  
Clyde skids to a halt, and almost flies over to Tweek, grabbing his arms. “Is he here,” he yells, way too loud; like a child too frightened to be reasoned with, “Is he okay?”  
“Right behind me,” Tweek says, discreetly trying to squirm free, because Clyde’s grip _hurts._ “And he’s fine, I promise! It looks worse than it is,” he adds, as honesty wins out. Tweek’s fumbling hand finds the door handle, and he puts his back into it, shoving the door open without breaking eye-contact with Clyde. And Clyde pushes past him, running the first few steps, then slowing down as he sees all the wires and tubes and things.  
“Dad,” he says, and his voice is a dry, cracking thing.  
“Hey,” Mr Donovan says groggily, raising one hand in a sleepy wave. “Clyde.” He’s doing better already, though you wouldn’t know it to look at him – the tube’s been taken out of his throat, and he’s well enough to sit up in bed, which also helps with his breathing. Of course, he’s still got to wear an oxygen mask, and for the twenty minutes that Tweek and Dad have been sitting with him, he’s nodded off twice.  
Clyde’s already sniffling as he walks those last few steps over to the bed. He pulls Tweek’s empty chair over and sits right on the edge of it, before he ducks his head, bumping it gently against his father’s chest.  
While Mr Donovan is mussing Clyde’s hair, Dad comes over, and jerks his chin at the door. “Let’s wait for her in the corridor,” he says, and Tweek nods. That would be best. 

Mom arrives ten minutes later, bursting out from the elevators down the hall as soon as the doors have opened wide enough. She’s not crying at all, but when she throws her arms around both of them at once, Tweek can tell that Mom’s shaking from head to toe. “You’re okay,” she whispers fiercely, “You’re okay, you’re okay…” until Dad forces her to sit down on one of the chairs that line the wall.  
“I’m sorry,” Tweek says, because it’s the first thing he can think of, “But I think my parka burned up in there.”  
“To hell with your parka,” Mom says, and starts to laugh – louder and louder, until suddenly, she’s sobbing. So Tweek sits on the floor and holds her hand, and puts up with Mom petting his hair and repeatedly kissing the top of his head, while Dad sits next to her and strokes her back.  
When Mom’s finally calmed down, and wiped off all the makeup that’s run down her face, Clyde slinks out into the corridor. “He, ah,” Clyde swallows, scrubbing his arm across his eyes, “He wants to talk to you guys.”

By the time they walk out of the hospital, it’s late enough that going back to the mall to pick the Datsun up, let alone try to revive the Rabbit, is out of the question. It’s freezing outside, and Tweek has no jacket anymore, but there is no way he’s accepting Mom’s purple wool coat with the owls on it. “You can’t be serious,” he hisses, shoving the thing back into her arms. Sure, Mom can get away with wearing a coat like that, but Tweek wouldn’t be seen _dead._  
“You’re putting that coat on, right now,” Mom says, as firmly as she can while also shaking like a leaf in the wind.  
“I’m calling us a taxi,” Dad says, like he wants nothing at all to do with this argument, tucking his phone under his ear while he unzips his own coat. “Tweek can wear my coat, honey,” he adds, as he starts to shake one sleeve off.  
“No,” Clyde says firmly, as he drops his football jacket over Tweek’s shoulders, “He’s wearing mine.”  
Clyde certainly doesn’t seem cold – in fact, it’s almost like there’s _steam_ coming off him, so Tweek doesn’t feel guilty about accepting it at all. “Thanks,” he says, smiling cautiously up at Clyde – because Clyde’s been worryingly quiet, on the ride back down in the elevator.  
“Thank _you,_ ” Clyde says, so serious that he almost sounds annoyed. “Both of you – my dad would be _dead_ if it wasn’t for you!”  
“Hell’s Pass hospital,” Dad is saying, as he reaches up and around to put his arm around Clyde’s shoulders. “Exit E! Damn, you’re tall,” he adds, almost absently, as he settles for patting Clyde on the back. “And we love your dad, too,” Dad goes on, like this is a perfectly _normal_ thing to say. “So there’s nothing to thank us for.”  
Clyde seems to consider this for a moment. Then it’s like he reaches some sort of decision – he hugs Dad first, then Mom, and finally Tweek, whispering, “Just keep the jacket.” Then he turns his back on the three of them, and starts walking down the road, towards the bus stop.  
“Hey,” Dad yells, “Where do you think you’re going, Clyde? Our taxi’ll be here any minute!”  
“There’s something I need to do,” Clyde yells back, throwing the words over his shoulder. He’s only wearing a red and white baseball shirt, but he really doesn’t look like he feels the cold at all.  
Tweek sucks his breath in – can he breathe well enough to run? A short sprint, he decides, before he takes off after Clyde.  
“What’s gotten into you,” he pants, throwing both arms around Clyde’s trunk-like left arm, just as much to keep himself upright as to try to slow Clyde down. “You promised your dad… you were gonna stay over with us!”  
Clyde stops dead, so abruptly that Tweek stumbles and almost falls. “That fire was my fault,” Clyde says, and Tweek realizes it’s gone all flat again. Clyde’s voice. Like back when he’d first started talking, when he threw McCormick on the floor and told him to stay away from Tweek.  
“How the hell was that _your_ fault,” he squeaks, worried enough that he’s very close to getting angry.  
“Because Cartman hates me,” Clyde says, measuring each word out carefully, “And Cartman set that fire. But I know where he lives.” With that, he starts walking again, literally dragging Tweek in his wake for a few seconds, until Tweek’s found his feet again.  
“So you’re gonna go to his house,” Tweek demands, “And _then_ what? Murder him?”  
“I’m gonna kick his fat ass,” Clyde shouts, loud enough to startle two crows out of one of the pines that line the road. “And I’m gonna tell him to leave us alone!”  
“And you think he’d actually _do_ that? Even if he _did_ set that fire?” Aw crap, Tweek really is getting angry now. “I know for a _fact_ that you’re not stupid, Clyde!”  
“But you could have died!” Clyde suddenly spins around, and in the yellow light from the streetlamps, Tweek can suddenly see that his eyes are puffy, and his cheeks are streaked with tears. Has Clyde been crying this whole time? “All three of you!”  
“But we didn’t,” Tweek counters fiercely. “We didn’t, okay? So don’t you throw that away, and go get yourself locked up for assault. Okay?!”  
Clyde’s wide shoulders suddenly sag. “Okay,” he mutters, and meekly lets Tweek pull him back towards the hospital exit, where a cab is just about to pull up at the kerb. 

When the four of them finally stumble in through the front door, it’s almost one in the morning. “I’ll go find you a toothbrush, Clyde,” Mom says, “And you can forget about going to school tomorrow! Both of you! Just sleep until you wake up, you got that?”  
“Mm,” Tweek replies, pausing only to hang Clyde’s football jacket from one of the pegs in the hallway before he runs upstairs. While Tweek’s getting the spare bedding out, Dad brings Clyde up to the attic, so the two of them can drag the inflatable yellow mattress down between them. Mom comes upstairs to help Tweek put the duvet cover on, with a red toothbrush still in its plastic wrapper sticking out from the back pocket of her skirt.  
Working together, the four of them get Clyde’s bed set up in less than fifteen minutes – on the floor next to Tweek’s bed. Because there’s a tacit, unspoken agreement that Clyde will be staying in Tweek’s room tonight.  
“Gigantex, huh,” Clyde says, reading the brand name that’s printed along the side of the mattress. “It’s fine, I can take a hint.” It takes the three of them a little too long to realize that was a joke, but they all still manage to have a good laugh over it – especially when Clyde lies down across the mattress to test it, and his feet dangle over the edge.  
After they’re done upstairs, Mom digs out five whole cans of Heinz mushroom soup, and heats them all up in that tall pasta pan they keep at the very back of the pan cupboard. Tweek and Dad can both eat it without scratching their throat up; and Tweek hadn’t even realized how hungry he was, until Mom put a steaming bowl down in front of him. He eats two bowls, and Clyde eats four, and then it’s off to bed. 

It’s the creaking that wakes him up. From the floorboards. He sits up in bed, rubbing his eyes, grunting quietly at the fresh pain in his arms and back – but, it’s not exactly easy to be mindful of your spine and lift from the knees when you’re dragging an unconscious man around. “Clyde,” he mutters sleepily, but there’s no response. Only creaking.  
Just in case Clyde’s still asleep on his mattress, Tweek reaches out to tug the curtain aside, and let some moonlight in. Oh damn. Clyde’s up, all right, but there’s something very off about his movements – it’s like sticking your head under at the swimming pool, and watching other people try to walk around in the water. The soft glow of the moon reflects off his wide-open, unseeing eyes, as Clyde shuffles around Tweek’s room, looking for something. Aw, crap.  
“Clyde,” he tries again, even though he _knows_ by now that his friend is sleepwalking.  
Clyde’s finds the door, and steps out onto the landing. Walking slowly, carefully, like he’s searching for something. For a way out, probably, Tweek thinks, remembering what Jimmy said about seeing Clyde out on his lawn. On some deep, unconscious level, Clyde seems to _know_ he’s not at home. So maybe he’s looking for a door that’ll take him outside?  
“Shit,” Tweek whispers, realizing that the door next to his is the one leading to his parents’ bedroom. And he knows enough about Mom’s childhood to know that, if she wakes up and sees a big, burly male shadow looming in the doorway, she won’t exactly take it well.  
He slips out of bed, and manages to squeeze himself around Clyde – who seems to be making a beeline for the bathroom door, anyway. Maybe because that’s straight ahead? Either way, Tweek’s not about to take any chances, and he’s certainly not prepared to deal with _this_ on his own, so he slips inside his parents’ bedroom and turns on the lights.  
Mom and Dad are both sound asleep – Dad on his back, snoring almost soundlessly, and Mom sprawled across his torso, clinging to him and mewling quietly, like a worried cat.  
“Come on,” Tweek says impatiently, running over to switch on the bedside lamp on Mom’s side, before he starts to shake her arm, “Wake up, wake up!”  
Finally, they start to stir, blinking and protesting. “Tweek, turn the light off,” Dad growls, while Mom swats Tweek’s hands away and tries to pull the duvet over her head.  
“You _have_ to wake up,” he pleads, “Clyde’s sleepwalking! I think he’s trying to get out!”  
“Ugh, that’s just perfect,” Dad grunts, swinging his feet over the edge – before he reaches over to yank the whole duvet off of Mom. “Helen, come on!”  
“I _hate_ you,” Mom growls, still with her eyes squeezed shut, just aiming the words in Dad’s general direction. She still seems too groggy to even understand what’s going on, but at least she’s up, too.  
Tweek runs back out on the landing to check on Clyde, and almost barrels right into him. He puts both hands on Clyde’s arm and pushes, just to make him move away from Mom and Dad’s door – and whew! It actually works! Clyde starts walking down the stairs instead, and that’s when Tweek realizes that he’s gone and made everything ten times worse, because the front door! If Clyde finds the front door, and walks out there wearing nothing but his boxers and baseball shirt…  
He forces himself to wait while Clyde slowly and carefully navigates the stairs, even though he’s impatient enough to jump up and down on the spot. As soon as Clyde’s safely down, Tweek runs after him, ducking under Clyde’s arm so he can open the hallway door, hissing at how cold the tiles are against his bare feet. Wait – the door’s already locked and bolted. Of course it is, Mom’s been pretty religious about checking it every night since they got burgled. But what if Clyde, in this half-awake, half-dreaming state he’s in, can figure out how to unlock it _anyway?_ And, oh shit, what about the back door?! Sure, Clyde would only wander out into the garden, but he’ll freeze! And he might trip over stuff, and… Tweek closes the hall door behind him, and stands on tiptoe to take the key down from the top of the door. At least, if he can lock this thing and take the key with him, it won’t matter if Clyde’s a sleepwalking Houdini.  
Tweek drops the key into the fruit bowl on the dining table, before he races past Clyde again, and into the kitchen. Phew, the back door’s also locked, _and_ Dad’s remembered to slot that little hook into the ring at the top. Even if Clyde can figure the lock out, the hook will probably leave him stumped. Tweek hopes so, anyway. He slips back out of the kitchen, and watches from behind the couch as Clyde wrestles with the hallway door. Clearly frustrated, but completely silent, he tugs and tugs at the handle – until, abruptly, he just gives up. Turns around, and walks into the kitchen – but he’s ignoring the back door in favour of the cellar door?! And that thing is never locked, holy crap! Clyde could fall down there and break his neck, and where is the key to that door, anyway?! Tweek slips past Clyde again, pressing his own back against the cellar door, frantically digging through his brain for ideas and coming up empty.  
“Come along, son.” Suddenly Dad’s there, pulling gently but firmly on Clyde’s arm, like he’s pulling a horse by the bridle.  
“Let’s try to turn him around,” Mom says, before she puts her hands flat against Clyde’s ribs and starts to push. And it… it actually works?! The three of them hem Clyde in between them, convincing him to move with a tap here, a gentle push there. For a little while it works so well that it almost becomes fun. But then, they get to the staircase.  
“You’re doing great,” Dad is saying, giving Clyde the lightest shove on the small of his back. “Let’s just try to get him back into bed, and…” Dad’s voice trails off, because all of a sudden, Clyde’s not moving anymore. At all. He just stands in front of the staircase for a minute, frowning.  
“I don’t think he wants to go back upstairs, Richie,” Mom says, very quietly, just as Clyde turns away and starts walking towards the hallway door again.  
“Oh no, you don’t,” Dad says, as he grabs hold of Clyde’s left arm and pulls. That turns out to be a mistake.  
“Dad,” Tweek yelps, just as Clyde swings his other arm around in a great big arc, and socks Dad right in the nose.  
“Shit,” Dad yells, as he falls backwards, catching himself awkwardly on the staircase, while Mom’s so startled that she screams.  
“Are you okay,” Tweek yells, running over to pull Dad up in a sitting position and forgetting all about Clyde for the moment, while Mom just grabs Dad’s chin without asking and tilts his head back.  
“I’m _exceptionally_ well,” Dad drawls. He’s got blood gushing out of both nostrils, _and_ Tweek heard him crack the back of his head against one of the steps. “Goddamn it.”  
"Hold still," Mom snaps, dabbing at the blood with a scrunched-up tissue - it seems her gross habit of stuffing a tissue up her sleeve before she goes to sleep has finally paid off.  
“Wuh… What happened?” The three of them turn around at exactly the same time, to stare open-mouthed at Clyde. He’s awake again now, and slowly backing away. “Did, did I do that,” he adds. It’s pretty obvious that he’s talking about Dad, who's now ripped the tissue up and is stuffing his nostrils with the two halves.  
“Not your fault, son,” Dad mutters, grunting with pain as Tweek and Mom help him to his feet.  
“You were sleepwalking,” Tweek says, “But it’s okay! Nobody’s mad or anything!”  
Clyde just sits right down on the floor, and starts to cry. Mom drops to her knees next to him, muttering, “It’s fine, it’s fine,” and hugging his arm. “You know we could never be mad at you, Clyde,” she says, while Dad puts his hand on Clyde’s head, mussing his hair. Tweek sits down too, right behind Clyde, so he can lean against his back. So he can say, _I’m here,_ without saying anything at all. And all the time, Mom’s talking, her voice a soothing hum in the night: “You know we care about you so much, right? You know that if your daddy _had_ died, we’d have adopted you, right? You’d never have to be deported to Holland, you could just stay right here with us…”  
“I’m pretty sure they can’t deport anyone who was born here,” Dad says, his voice a little muffled from the paper tissue stuffed up his nose. “And it’s called the Netherlands, not Holland. I looked it up the other day.”  
From his spot on the floor, Tweek tilts his head and looks up, right at Dad’s hand rhythmically rubbing the top of Clyde’s head, while the other boy sobs and sobs. He slides his hand along the carpet, fumbles around until he’s found Clyde’s big, blocky hand. Carefully slides his own hand on top of Clyde’s, squeezing it to say, _I’m here._


	32. Your brain’s all grey!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHOA NELLIE, I just came back to over 5K hits?! Thanks so much for all the support you guys give this fic!
> 
> Anyway, about this chapter: It's not my intention at all to judge people who are on medication - sometimes it can be the only thing that helps. But I've done some reading about how addictive "benzoids" can be (Xanax falls into that category), and also a really good friend of mine has struggled with being on medication for too long. Not to mention the side-effects, which my friend is now on separate types of medication for... it's a bit of a never-ending cycle, in their case. Sorry to get personal, and of course every single person is different. But since the early days of this story, Tweek working out that he wants to live without the meds has been part of the plan. I just don't feel right about ending this thing with him still taking them.

It’s the ringing that wakes him up, endless and persistent. Phone, Tweek thinks blearily. It’s like that ringtone is drilling its way right through his cranium, a million times worse than any alarm clock. Wait, what if it’s the hospital? What if it’s about Mr Donovan! Still more than half asleep, Tweek tries to sit up, at the exact same time that his right leg decides this would be the perfect time to cramp up.  
“GAH!” Screaming and flailing, Tweek overbalances and falls out of bed – and of _course_ he doesn’t land on Clyde’s mattress, oh no. He manages to hit that narrow strip of floor right _between_ the mattress and his own bed.  
“Ngh, goddamn it,” he mutters, sitting up and rubbing his shoulder, sore from being landed on. That muscle in his right leg feels like it’s tied itself in a bow; “excruciating” doesn’t even begin to describe it. It’s so tight and painful that he literally has to limp across the room to his desk, where the ringing is coming from. Oh right – Clyde folded his sweaty clothes up on Tweek’s desk chair last night.  
Tweek quickly goes through the pockets of Clyde’s jeans, until he finds the still-ringing phone and swipes to take the call. “Hello,” he mutters, his voice hoarse and dry from snoring.  
A man’s voice at the other end says _something_ that ends with “Clyde Donovan”, and Tweek manages a grunt in response – because yeah, this _is_ Clyde’s phone. He stretches his right leg out, hissing quietly with pain as he flexes his foot.  
“I’m calling about your test results,” the person on the other end is saying, “Following the procedure on November thirteenth?”  
“Uh-huh,” Tweek replies, and swallows a yawn.  
“Right. So fortunately, there is no sign whatsoever of a tumour, nor has there been any cranial trauma. We did, however, detect an unusually high amount of so-called grey matter, which means the visual disturbances you’ve experienced are likely to have been caused by –”  
“JESUS,” Tweek screams, as his brain suddenly catches up with him, and he realizes that he’s sitting here, listening to Clyde’s confidential CAT-scan results. “Stop talking! Just stay right there!”  
He limps out onto the landing, growling to himself because it still hurts to walk, let alone run, and starts pounding his free hand on the bathroom door, yelling “Jesus, shit! Open up!”  
The sound of running water abruptly stops. Too slowly, Clyde opens the door – Tweek sees he took the time to wrap a towel around his waist. “I think I prefer Nugget,” Clyde drawls, then blinks as Tweek shoves the phone into his hand.  
“Gah, take this! Your brain’s all grey!”  
“Oh-kay?” Clyde tucks his phone under his hear and pads back inside the bathroom, leaving the door open. Tweek follows him inside, perching nervously on the toilet lid while Clyde takes the call, sitting on the edge of the bathtub. “Sorry about that,” he’s saying, his voice all warm and charming. “No, just a misunderstanding.”  
While Tweek chews on a piece of skin next to his thumbnail, Clyde listens to the doctor or nurse or whatever that guy is. Nodding and asking the odd question – like, “What does that mean,” and “Is that normal?” How can he stay so calm? That’s his _brain_ they’re talking about! “Okay, thanks,” Clyde says at last, “That’s a huge load off my mind! I’ll definitely read it all, thank you so much!” Then he hangs up, and grins at Tweek. “Dude,” he says, “My brain’s fine.”  
“Wh-what?! But, but that grey matter thing – and I’m so sorry I heard all that, I didn’t mean to, but he said there was – ”  
“There was more grey matter than the average brain has,” Clyde says, finishing the sentence for him. “And that’s something a lot of people with synaesthesia have. You know; that colour thing Token was talking about? I think my mom might’ve had it too,” he adds, standing up, “Because we used to argue about which days were what colours. And when Dad said he didn’t think they were any colour at all? I just thought he couldn’t see them ’cause he’s got glasses.”  
Tweek snorts, giddy with relief. He looks up at Clyde for just a second, their eyes meet, and suddenly Clyde is howling with laughter. That sets Tweek off, and soon they’re both laughing like maniacs. It reverberates off the bathroom tiles until it sounds like they’ve trapped a whole pack of hyenas in there. 

As soon as they get down to the kitchen, Tweek realizes what’s going on – Mom’s left to open Tweak Bros on her own. Because there are three of her infamous lists waiting on the kitchen table, each with a name on it – “Richard”, “Clyde” and “Tweek”. Mom will just grab A4 pages from the printer, fold them into three sections, and tape them shut with some mint-green masking tape. She picked up something like ten rolls of it from a stationery store in Japan-town, the last time they went to San Francisco. Ugh. There’s having a favourite colour, and then there’s dedicating your _life_ to having a favourite colour.  
“See,” Tweek says, picking up the list with Clyde’s name and handing it to him, “This proves for sure you’ve been officially adopted.”  
“What the hell,” Clyde mutters, carefully tearing his list open and jumping back as another piece of paper falls out. “Dude, she wrote one for my dad, too!” He holds up yet another folded list, this one marked “Roger”. “Okay, so…” Clyde leans against the kitchen counter, clearing his throat. “Dear Clyde, good morning,” he reads out loud. “Please remember to a) call the hospital, and b) eat a nice big breakfast. If oatmeal, take whatever you want from fruit bowl, plus blueberries in fridge. If not, check freezer for bread rolls. Also c) please remind Tweek to take his pill.”  
“I’m sorry,” Tweek mutters, switching the kettle on, “My mom’s so annoying.” He gets their new French press down from its shelf in the cupboard and starts to spoon coffee into it. One scoop, two…  
“Dude,” Clyde says, and he sounds almost offended, “Your mom’s _awesome._ You have any idea how much I _miss_ this kind of, of…” he spreads his hands wide, still holding Mom’s list, like the word just escapes him.  
Oh, right. Tweek drops his gaze. “Sorry,” he mutters, dropping the scoop back inside the coffee tin. “So what’ll it be, oatmeal or bread rolls?” He’ll just make half a pot of coffee, since Clyde’s not going to want any.  
“Whichever one’s faster, I guess?” Clyde walks over, and roughly musses Tweek’s already messy hair for a second, before he pulls out a kitchen chair and keeps reading. “If Richard a) wakes up, make him eat, then go pick both cars up, but if b) he doesn’t, go with Tweek and ONLY get our car. If Richard moans about it, tell him I said you could take it. Go see your daddy. Lunch in the fridge – Ravioli plus jar of sauce, plus please eat that broccoli. Hey Tweek,” Clyde looks up, “Aren’t you gonna read yours?”  
“I need coffee first,” Tweek replies, while he pours water over the ground coffee and positions the plunger just so, “And let me just get…” Out of the corner of his eye, Tweek sees a movement through the curtains in the living room. “…my phone,” he mutters, walking slowly out of the kitchen and over to the window. It’s not his mind play tricks on him, is it – that’s a human shadow!  
“Tweek, what –” Clyde begins, just as Tweek yanks the curtains apart. There is a bright flash – a camera, he realizes, once he can see again. Wielded by a guy with longish curly hair that he’s cut actual bangs into, which are also curly. He’s wearing one of those buffalo shirt jackets, and there’s some kind of ID clipped to the front pocket. “Is that a… press pass,” Tweek says, more thinking out loud than asking.  
“Dude, why’s a press photographer camping out in your flower beds?”  
“Ngh, how the hell should I know,” Tweek growls, then quickly pulls the curtains shut just as that damn flash goes off again. Footsteps behind him make him spin around, as Clyde charges past him. “Wait, what’re you gonna – ”  
Clyde’s already out in the front hall, still wearing nothing but a towel, as he yanks the front door open. Another flash immediately goes off, and Clyde raises his arm to cover his eyes. “What’re you people _doing_ here,” he asks, a tad aggressively, as Tweek runs up to stand next to him. Buffalo Jacket has company now; a guy with a brown puffer jacket, whose black hair has been pulled over his head in a really streaky comb-over. This guy’s holding out what looks like a cordless house phone, at first glance - but he’s not fooling Tweek, because Tweek’s been to _therapy_.  
“Is that a voice recorder,” he says, even though he pretty much _knows_ the answer would be yes. _If_ the jerkass holding it could even be bothered to answer his question.  
“Can you tell us anything about the fire,” the guy says instead, while his camera-wielding friend steps backwards off the porch, like he wants to get a really good wide-angle shot of Tweek and Clyde together. “You were there last night, right kid? Do you believe there’s a chance that Roger Donovan set it himself?”  
“What,” Tweek snaps, too angry to even make a grab for politeness, “Are you insane?!”  
“You think he did it for the insurance money?”  
“No,” Clyde says, and his voice is so cold and flat that it makes Tweek feel sick to his stomach. “I don’t think my dad would do that.” Each word one heavy, heavy syllable.  
“Holy shit, you’re his _son!_ ” Comb-over is so shocked, he almost drops the voice recorder.  
Tweek looks up at Clyde, just as he slams the door shut. At least Clyde’s face hasn’t gone all dead like it was before. “Tweek, I…” Clyde closes his eyes and swallows. “I’m sorry, but… I really want to wake up your dad now?” 

The least Tweek can do, when he about to wake Dad up with shitty news – like how there’s a mini press conference sitting on their front lawn – is soften the blow with a cup of coffee. So now he’s walking carefully up the stairs with a nice big mug for each of them, balanced on that tray they got from Mrs Stoley. The tray’s got this super detailed picture of a boy and a girl staking a boat down a river printed on it, but when Tweek had remarked on how pretty it was, Kevin had pulled him aside. He’d explained how it’s just an old freebie from some Chinese supermarket in Denver; advertising some brand of oyster sauce. But Tweek doesn’t think that makes it any less pretty.  
Clyde follows behind him with a mug of Jasmine tea that he keeps blowing on. In his other hand, he’s carrying a bag of frozen sweet-potato fries, wrapped up in a towel. “Tweek,” he says, when they’ve reached the top of the stairs. He puts his own mug down on the tray when Tweek turns around, “Give me that. I’ll wake your dad up and, ah, ask him to lend me some underpants, okay? Maybe a shirt too, while I’m at it. If the fire’s all over the news,” he adds, when Tweek only blinks at him, “What’re the chances Craig’s already heard about it?”  
“Oh shit, you’re right,” Tweek wails, shoving the tray into Clyde’s arms and running like crazy back to his own bedroom. Phone, phone, shit, where did he put it last night? In the end, he finds it under a pile of his own clothes, thanks to the annoying blip of the message notifications.  
“Come on, come on,” he mutters, swiping past the lock screen with shaking hands. Holy crap, there are a _lot_ of messages waiting for him. Not that Tweek has time to deal with those right now. Just picking Craig’s number from his Contact list takes him three tries; his hand is trembling so hard that his finger keeps landing on Clyde’s name instead.  
“Tweek?” Craig takes the call almost immediately, his voice so strained with worry that Tweek instantly hates himself. Jesus, he’s such an idiot! Calling Craig should’ve been the first thing he did when he woke up, the first thing! “Babe, are you okay, what’s going on?”  
“I’m fine,” Tweek assures him, talking as fast as he can. “I mean, I got smoke inhalation last night from the fire, but it wasn’t _that_ bad, they gave us oxygen and they didn’t even _need_ to keep Dad or me at the hospital overnight, just Mr Donovan, and Clyde stayed over with us! And then he sleepwalked and punched my Dad out! By accident,” Tweek adds, as he starts to wind down.  
Unbelievably, there is a quiet chuckle from the other end. “Well,” Craig says. “You sound like yourself, anyway.”  
“What,” Tweek exclaims, mildly offended, “You mean like –”  
“Like a spaz,” Craig says, but he makes it sound more like another pet name than an insult. “Mike told me, “Your town’s on the news,” and just as I got into the TV-room, they showed this Allen-key of you guys dragging Nugget’s dad outside?”  
“You mean the security footage,” Tweek asks absently. Of course that’s what Craig means. “What you said was, that think you get for free with, with flat-packs from IKEA.”  
“But is _he_ okay,” Craig is asking, too worried to even be annoyed over his own slip-up.  
“Mr Donovan? I, I _think_ so. He’s still in hospital, though.” Tweek sinks down on the edge of his bed, and lets his eyes slip shut for just a second. Gah, he’s still so tired! “And now that reporter’s saying he set the fire himself.”  
“What reporter,” Craig demands. “What’s his…?”  
“His name? He didn’t say; he just sort of…” Tweek tips his head back, yawning wide enough to rip his own face in half. “Sorry. Sort of threw questions at us, I guess? They were waiting outside our house, him and his photographer.”  
“Don’t talk to them,” Craig says firmly. “Whatever you say, they’ll just twist it. How’s, uh… Wait a second…” There’s a snapping sound; probably Craig taking his phone cover off. Before they all went to see Craig together last Sunday, Token printed off an Instax with the most normal picture he has of Clyde, and wrote Clyde’s name on the back. That, along with Clyde wearing his name tag from the shoe store, had kept the afternoon almost completely Nugget-free, to Craig’s obvious relief. So now, Craig keeps that Instax inside his phone cover. “How’s Clyyyde doing,” Craig says, drawing the name out. Even though it’s totally _obvious_ he has to read the name off the back of the picture to get it right, Tweek doesn’t think it counts as cheating at all. More like… like positive reinforcement.  
“He sleepwalked and punched my dad out, remember?” Tweek gets to his feet, and starts to unbutton his sweaty pyjama shirt one-handed. “But like, it could be much… Tweek’s raises his arm to toss the shirt in the general direction of his laundry basket, when he spots the marks on his upper arms. “What the…?” He shuffles over to the mirror to get a better look, twisting his arms this way and that to count them all; ten perfectly round circles left behind by Clyde’s fingertips.  
“Babe,” Craig sounds worried, “What’s wrong?”  
“Ngh?” Tweek _almost_ tries to lie and say it’s nothing, but no. Whether it was spending a whole week together, or Craig has developed some sixth boyfriend sense, he can always tell if Tweek’s hiding something. “You know how Clyde’s always really careful not to hurt people by accident?” Tweek pulls his T-shirt drawer open, starts looking for one that’s got sleeves long enough to cover all those marks. The last thing he needs to do is give Clyde something _else_ to feel guilty about.  
Craig sighs. “Can’t be too serious if you only noticed it now – right? So what’d he do?”  
“Uh, grabbed my arms hard enough to leave finger-prints? Don’t be mad,” Tweek adds, because it suddenly feels like he’s ratting Clyde out.  
“I’m not mad,” Craig says, before he sighs again. “It’s not like he ever does it on purpose. He’s done way worse to me,” Craig adds, with a throaty little laugh.  
“Hah, like you’re his battered wife or something?” It feels good to laugh, to let some of that tension out.  
At the very bottom of the drawer, Tweek finds that baseball tee with the “Om” symbol on the chest. The one he almost never wears, because it’s so damn dorky. But the black sleeves end just past his elbow, so this’ll be perfect.  
“Hey,” Craig is saying, and all of a sudden he sounds kind of… hesitant. “Were you scared?”  
“Last night, you mean?” Tweek thinks about it for a second. He’s so used to being afraid of literally _everything_ that his answer surprises even him. “Sure, I was super scared for a while. But then we went in there, and we found him, and it was just… I could only focus on _how_ we were going to do stuff, you know? Like breaking the door down; or getting him out of there. So suddenly, I wasn’t scared at _all_. Could just be the Xanax though,” he adds, with a little laugh.  
“Dude,” Craig says, after being quiet for almost a whole minute, “You really are the bravest chicken I know. You know that? What’s so funny,” he snaps, when Tweek suddenly can’t _stop_ laughing. “Hey! Babe, what’d I say?!”

The three of them arrive at the mall’s staff parking lot to find that somebody’s tucked a fake parking ticket under the Datsun’s windscreen wipers. “WARNING,” it says, “Your vehicle is unauthorised to park here & will FACE CONSEQUENCES such as TOWING and conjoining expenses should it EVER be found here again. We have PHOTOGRAPHED your LICENSE PLATE.”  
“That douchebag,” Clyde growls, his hands balling into fists at his sides. He seems to know exactly who’s put it there. Since he did end up taking that Xanax with his bowl of oatmeal, Tweek isn’t able to get _quite_ that worked up – not that he doesn’t agree that it’s unfair. After all, Dad never _meant_ to leave the Datsun there overnight, and being carted away in an ambulance should count as a more than good enough excuse to ditch your own car.  
Dad finds it hilarious, though. “I’m gonna frame this,” he snorts, leaning against the car while he laughs, fanning himself with the printed note. “Conjoining expenses…! I can’t wait to show her!”  
Tweek’s list from Mom, when he finally got round to opening it, had told him not to wake Dad up because she’d woken him once every hour to ice his nose. It seems to have worked, too, since it only looks a little bit swollen, even though it’s turned at least _three_ different shades of purple. But that means Mom didn’t get any sleep at all, and now she’s running Tweak Bros all by herself! She must be half dead by now! The list also included a mention of how she’d dug his winter coat out of storage; the one Mom got him at some after-Christmas sale last year. An olive-green puffer-coat that actually has buttons and a zipper down the front; and a hood with fake white fur wrapped around the edge. It’s a size too big, but Tweek doesn’t really mind that, since it covers his butt _and_ the back of his legs. Not to mention it’s less annoying than his blue parka, which he always had to pull over his head. It’s ridiculously warm, though; Tweek’s been wearing it unzipped all morning.  
Meanwhile, Clyde’s gone and popped the hood of the Rabbit, so Dad quickly gets a hold of himself and digs that jumper cable out. Tweek steps back to let them work, checking his phone. Token’s got two separate group chats running – an ancient and enormous one that all five of them are part of; after Jimmy invited Tweek to join it. And then there’s the one Token started while Craig was still in a coma, because just looking at Craig’s messages on their old chat had been too much. Now they use the four-person chat to not _exactly_ talk about Craig behind his back, but more to… to arrange the practical stuff. Like who goes to see him when, and what kind of stuff to bring him. And to discuss things they don’t want Craig to worry about. Tweek still doesn’t feel right about it, though, so has been sticking to the five-person chat as much as possible. 

Craig: Hey is everything OK? Can’t get hold of Tweek for some reason.  
Token: He’s not in school yet.  
Jimmy: Nor is Nugget.  
Craig: Eat shit, Jimmy.  
Craig: You think something happened?  
Token: Neither of them is answering his phone. Have messaged them here AND on Insta.  
Jimmy: OK, hang tight. Token’s gonna call Tweek’s house, I’m gonna call Nuggetsville.  
Craig: I told you to eat shit.  
Craig: Well?!  
Craig: Anything?!  
Jimmy: Answerphone.  
Token: But I’m sure it’s nothing.  
What follows is a picture of a TV-screen sent from Craig’s phone; three figures staggering out from a wall of black smoke.  
Craig: This look like nothing to you? 

Clyde’s already posted to this chat by now, explaining briefly about the fire, saying he’s convinced Cartman set it, and making Tweek sound way more badass than is even close to true. This is followed by a message from Craig – Tweek just called me, how’s your dad? – and Jimmy promising to ask his “contacts” at Middle Park for info on Cartman’s whereabouts. Not even _Token_ questions Clyde’s assertion that Cartman must’ve done it. That really says a lot, huh?  
Meanwhile, Dad’s hooked the two cars up with that cable, and started the Datsun up, and now Clyde’s trying to fire up the Rabbit. It comes awake on the second try, sounding almost as bad as Mr Donovan’s cough last night, before it settles into a steady, rusty purr.  
“Now what,” Tweek asks, leaning over the Rabbit’s open door and peering in at Clyde.  
“Now we leave ‘em running for ten minutes or so,” Clyde replies, leaning back in the driver’s seat. “Dad asked me to check how bad the store is,” he adds, closing his eyes for a second. “And I should probably take some pictures, for the insurance…”  
Tweek bites his lip. “Do you think,” he begins, then stops himself – maybe it’s a stupid idea.  
Clyde opens his eyes. “What?”  
“I was just thinking,” Tweek mutters, “The mall’s got security cameras, right? Do you think they’d let us check the footage for Cartman?”  
Clyde’s mouth slowly slips open, and he starts to nod. 

The mall cops, or maybe the real cops, have put up yellow tape with “DO NOT CROSS” printed on it across the front window and the sliding doors. Those seemed to have been wrenched all the way open last night – makes sense, Tweek supposes, to help the smoke dissipate. One security guard hovers nearby, clearly charged with watching the burned-out shoe store on top of doing his regular job, and comes jogging over when Clyde starts ducking under the tape.  
“Hey, Mr Jeffries,” Clyde says, raising his hand in a wave while he’s still bent double. “My dad wants pictures for the insurance.”  
“Well, you can tell him, there’s good news!” The security guard comes over, and holds his hand out to Dad for a shake. “You two got Roger out of here, right? It’s the hair,” he adds, jerking his chin first at Dad’s tight halo of curls, and then at Tweek’s insane mess. “Really sticks out on the video.”  
“What good news,” Clyde asks, and Tweek gets why he’s wondering. There are melted shoe samples everywhere; some of them have literally fused with the plastic shelving, or even with the wall, so that little colourful blobs seem to have grown out of the woodwork, like fungus. Everything except the till desk has been completely destroyed, and even _that’s_ so badly charred it might have to get scrapped.  
“The flames didn’t get to the stockroom,” Mr Jeffries says, grinning, while he’s still pumping Dad’s hand.  
“For real,” Clyde yells, before he runs towards the back office – probably because that door’s still open.  
“Don’t touch anything,” the security guard shouts after him, but it’s impossible to tell if Clyde’s heard him or not.  
“The video, eh,” Dad says, and he sounds for all the world like the thought has just occurred to him. Like Tweek didn’t spend the past ten minutes pleading with him to help get them a look at that footage, while they waited for the Rabbit’s battery to charge. Because the truth is, adults only listen to adults. And here’s another truth; Dad can be scarily persuasive. The number of times Tweek’s found himself talked into stuff he _never_ wanted to do in the first place, be it shovelling snow or going to summer camp, are just too many to count. Not to _mention_ Dad’s already sold _five_ copies of Mrs Tucker’s book, in just over a week. And best of all, he got rid of Comb-over and Buffalo Jacket, after giving them a quick run-down of the fire last night.  
“Oh- _ho,_ you want a look at the security footage?” Mr Jeffries laughs. “You and every journalist in town! Get in line, buddy! The police are going over it now; that and the footage from inside the store. Good thing it’s all digital; eh? Since those cameras went and melted.”  
At that moment, Tweek just wants to tip his head back and howl like a werewolf. That probably wouldn’t go down so well, though.  
“Not necessarily,” Dad’s saying, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “But could you get a message to them? Because there’s someone they might want to look out for in that footage. Someone very distinctive; who’s already got a police record.”  
The security guard suddenly goes all serious. “You got a name,” he asks, as he slips his walkie-talkie out of its holder.  
“Eric Cartman,” Tweek says firmly. 

“I added them to the family chat,” Dad says, as he pulls up behind Tweak Bros, grunting in annoyance when he sees that someone’s parked in his usual spot. “Roger and Clyde. Seemed appropriate,” he adds, as he carefully slides the Datsun in between a shiny black Lincoln Navigator and a bright blue Fiat Compact that somebody’s gone and keyed. You can see the long scratch in the paint clearly.  
“Yeah,” Tweek agrees, covering his mouth to yawn. It _does_ feel right – and it’ll probably make that chat a lot less boring, too. “What’s with all the cars, eh?” He carefully opens his door, just wide enough that he can slide out of the Datsun without giving that Fiat a second scratch.  
“Too early for the cinema crowd,” Dad says, executing some awkward dance moves of his own before he can close his door. “This douchebag’s parked _way_ over the stripe; he’d better not leave with my mirror.”  
Tweak Bros certainly _looks_ busy, with a bunch of people lined up at the counter, though most of the tables are still free. And as soon as Dad’s pulled the door open, Tweek realizes why. Mom’s pacing behind the counter, rubbing her arms. Her makeup is smudged already, her eyes are wild, and her greasy hair is sticking out worse than Tweek’s own hair. He recognises Comb-over and Buffalo Jacket immediately – so _this_ is where they went after Dad convinced them to leave the house! There’s also one guy with an honest-to-god video camera, accompanied by a dude with a microphone.  
We get to be on the same shitty TV-channel as Mrs Stotch and her Bible pals, Tweek realizes, and chokes down hysterical laughter. If he starts laughing now, he has no idea when he’ll be able to stop.  
“Mrs Tweak,” Comb-over is saying, “Is it true that you’re having an affair with Roger Donovan?”  
“Is _that_ the reason your husband set his store on fire,” the other journalist asks, in a surprisingly high voice, “As a warning to back off? Or do you think he intended for his rival to burn to death?” Suddenly, Tweek realizes this one’s actually a woman, with short hair and a pant-suit. Sisterhood has clearly gone out the window there, in favour of ratings.  
This is insane. Tweek wants to say something, tell them all to shut up and shove their cameras where the sun doesn’t shine, so why can’t he move? Why’s he standing frozen on the spot instead? He looks up at Dad, whose mouth slowly slides open; it seems like for _once_ in his life, Dad’s actually too shocked to speak.  
“Roger is our friend.” Mom’s voice is trembling dangerously. “Richard would never! I would never! Roger and his son are like _family_ to us! So how _dare_ you people show up here and, and make up all this _crap,_ when you have no idea what’s really going on!” She points right at the door, but nobody even turns their heads. “Either you order something, or you can all just get out!”  
There’s one of the Instagram ladies, at her usual window table. She’s brought her baby today and has been distractedly bopping him up and down on her knee, watching the mayhem. And there’s Mr Henderson at another table, gripping his cane as he stands up. “You should be ashamed of yourselves,” he snaps, his white cane swishing back and forth in front of him, like the tail of an angry cat, as he walks right up to the media people. He even manages to whack Comb-over in the leg with it – knowing Mr Henderson; that probably wasn’t even an accident! “Hounding poor Helen when she could have lost her husband _and_ her son in that fire!”  
“Yeah, what the hell,” says the Instagram Lady, shifting her baby onto her hip as she gets up, too. “I come here a _lot,_ okay? And her and her husband are like, _ridiculously_ cute. There’s no _way_ she’s cheating on him.”  
There’s like, maybe a split second of silence. And then, the lady in the pant-suit says, “So it’s more of a poly-amorous relationship, then,” just as Buffalo Jacket fires off another picture of Mom’s crestfallen face. “Can you tell us a little bit more about how _that_ works?”  
“Hey,” Tweek hears himself say, “You heard my mom. Either buy something, or leave.” They’re taping this too, he realizes, as the cameraman turns that big lens on him. Compelled by _something,_ Tweek brings his hand up in a little wave, and says, “Hi Craig! If you’re watching this, I love you!” Then he blows a kiss, aiming it right at the lens, while Dad, finally able to move again, runs past him and pulls the countertop open.  
“I think we’re done here,” Pant-suit says, and her underling obediently swings the camera off his shoulder. Now Dad’s hugging Mom tight, while she’s doing her best not to cry, but of course Buffalo Jacket can’t be bothered to get a picture of _that_.  
Tweek goes and holds the door open for all four of them, with the widest smile he can manage. He can feel rage simmering underneath the artificial calm the Xanax brings him. I can’t be on these pills for much longer, he thinks, and knows it’s the truth. Why should he be, when he never even _wanted_ to kill himself? “I’d hate for this thing to hit you in the ass,” he says to Buffalo Jacket, who’s the last one out, before he lets go of the door. Buffalo Jacket has to do a little hop to get out of the way in time, which is mildly satisfying at least.  
“Mr Henderson,” Dad’s saying, while he slowly rocks Mom from side to side, her head tucked under his chin, “And you, with the baby – I’m sorry, I have no idea what you name is. Whatever you want off the menu, on the house. And you should get some sleep, honey,” he whispers into Mom’s hair.  
“It’s Sharona,” the Instagram Lady says, with an embarrassed little shrug, “My name. Like the song, you know?”  
“I’m sorry,” Tweek says, as he slips behind the counter, “But _nothing_ beats Tweek, okay? I’m seventeen years old now, and I still don’t know why. Or how,” he adds, slipping his hand through Mom’s and carefully tugging her out of Dad’s arms, while Sharona laughs.  
“C’mon, Mom,” Tweek says, as he leads her into the back room. It’s like Mom’s asleep already, she doesn’t even try to argue. She’s too tired to talk, just gives him a quick kiss and a cuddle before she ducks under the counter that runs along the wall, the one they normally take turns eating at. Curls up on the floor like a cat, with one arm tucked under her head. Tweek shrugs his parka off and spreads it out over Mom like a blanket. Then he looks around for something to use as a pillow, and finally decides on taking a small sack of single-origin Ethiopian. But by the time he’s carried it back to her and squatted down on the floor, Mom’s already snoring softly. Oh, well. Tweek reaches out to tuck her hair behind her ear – no reaction at all – before he puts the sack down on the counter and slips back outside. They’ve got customers to serve, after all. 

“I’ve decided I want to come off the Xanax,” Tweek says, looking at Dr Hoffman for a full count of five before he has to avert his eyes.  
“I see,” Dr Hoffman says, raising both her perfectly sculpted eyebrows, while her face remains completely calm. “Won’t you sit down, Tweek, and tell me how you came to that conclusion?”  
That’s fair enough, Tweek decides, as he stoops to pull his Converse off. He’s barely taken the time to say hi, before spitting that out – but, he _had_ to say it fast. Before he could lose his nerve.  
“Those pills were supposed to stabilize me, right,” he says, stepping out onto the rug. “To stop me from thinking about killing myself. And the Anfranil was supposed to stop me from yanking my hair out.”  
“…as well as any other obsessive-compulsive behaviours or thoughts,” Dr Hoffman says, nodding slowly to herself. “Now tell me, have you noticed any changes since you stopped taking Anfranil?”  
“Only that I feel better.” Tweek sinks into the deep leather chair, and pulls both his legs up, tucking them against one armrest. “Less… dead inside? And it’s like I don’t freak out as bad, either. Like, the worst panic attack I ever had, was right before I stopped taking it.”  
“I see.” Dr Hoffman nods again. “A common side-effect of Clomipramine, which is the name of the medication itself – Anfranil is just the brand name, you see? – is that anxiety symptoms might actually get worse when you first start taking it. Which may be another reason you were also prescribed Xanax,” she adds, before crossing one leg over the other and braiding her fingers around her knee. “So. Tell me about your day.”  
Her question seems random, but this is Tweek’s third session with Dr Hoffman, so he knows it’s anything _but_. “Well technically,” he says, “The day starts right after midnight. Right? So then it started with my friend Clyde sleepwalking. He was staying with us because his dad’s in hospital now, after that fire in the shoe store? My dad and I went in to get him,” Tweek goes on, when Dr Hoffman’s face betrays nothing more than polite interest. “There was so much smoke; they had to give us all oxygen afterwards, so he’d just fainted at his desk. I think I pulled something when Dad and I were dragging him out of there.” He rolls his shoulder in the socket, and sure enough, it’s still sore. “Anyway, I woke up when he started sleepwalking at maybe four in the morning? And we almost got him back to bed, but then my dad startled him, so Clyde punched him and woke up.”  
“So let me get this straight. You pulled a man out of a burning building yesterday?”  
“Burning shoe-store,” Tweek corrects her, in the name of honesty. “And really, my dad did most of it. I only helped.”  
“Nonetheless,” Dr Hoffman shifts in her seat, pulls one foot up to rest on the edge of her chair – she’s only wearing socks, too. “You’ve gone from debilitating panic attacks to rescuing someone from a fire in less than a month? Why do you think that is, Tweek?”  
“Um.” It’s going to sound so cheesy that Tweek cringes at just the _thought_ of saying it out loud. But hey – it’s only the truth, so… “Because I have friends now?”  
Dr Hoffman smiles then; and not her usual reserved smile either, but a really big one. “And how has that changed things for you? Don’t think about it, just say whatever pops into your head.”  
“Jimmy stops me from pulling my hair,” Tweek says, looking up at the ceiling. “He doesn’t even make me feel stupid about it; he just turns it into a joke, and we’re on the school paper together, too. Token talks to me if I’m freaking out, we listen to jazz together in his car, and he always keeps bottled water in the glove compartment, just for me. And with Clyde it’s like, I look after him as much as he looks after me, you know? Just last night, I stopped him from going off and doing something really stupid, because he actually _listened_ to me, like I’m someone you could take advice from?”  
“Why wouldn’t you be,” Dr Hoffman asks, and even though she's being so casual about it, Tweek can tell that his answer really matters.  
“Because I’m nuts? Except, I mean, I don’t really _think_ I am,” he goes on; “Because, I told you already I never really wanted to die, right? And I don’t think I’d even have wound up on that roof, if it hadn’t been for those guys who used to bully me since we were kids. If one of them hadn’t backed me up in a corner. Or out on a ledge,” Tweek adds, shrugging.  
“You told me already,” Dr Hoffman agrees, and suddenly sits up very straight. “Right, Tweek. It’s time for me to level with you. You’ve been on Xanax for just under five weeks now, isn’t that right? After taking benzodiazepines for any longer than two weeks, the body begins to develop a… dependency. But, I have good reason to hope that the withdrawal period won’t be too bad for you, since you’re asking to come off them this early.”  
“You, you mean…” Tweek barely dares to hope that he’s guessed right, “You mean I can really stop taking the pills? Right now?”  
“I want to decrease your dosage gradually over the next few days,” Dr Hoffman says, “Just to lessen the shock to your system. But yes,” she smiles again, “I think you’re _more_ than sane enough to get through life without them.” 

Tweek steps out on the street, and immediately yanks his hood up – holy _crap,_ it suddenly got cold! Seems it started sleeting while he was having his therapy session. Even though the sleet seems to dissolve as soon as it hits the ground, it still makes everything _super_ unpleasant. He’s fumbling with the zipper when he’s suddenly bathed in light, and a car horn honks, twice.  
Huh? Tweek looks up, and right into the headlights of a navy blue Prius. “Token?”  
It’s impossible that Token could have heard him from in there, but he can obviously tell that Tweek’s recognized him. He’s waving frantically for Tweek to come over, and there’s nothing in the world Tweek would like more right now than a lift over to the rehab centre.  
“Dude, I didn’t know you’d be here,” he says, yanking the passenger door open. Token’s got the heating on, full blast, and Tweek gratefully shakes his hood off.  
“Then check your phone after therapy, dumbass,” Token tells him, bopping Tweek affectionately on the head. “Hey, before you get too comfortable? Go round the back and see what I’ve got in the trunk.”  
“Uh?” Tweek would really rather just curl up here and let the heating cables in the seat work their magic on all those sore muscles in his back and shoulders – especially his shoulders. But, he has to admit that he’s curious.  
So back outside he goes, tugging his hood back up, and pulls the trunk lid open as soon as Token’s popped it. There are two black gym bags in there – large ones – side by side. Tweek suddenly gets a feeling that he might not like what he’s about to see, but he can’t wuss out now. So he leans forwards, and slowly pulls back the zipper on the closest one.  
“JESUS!” Tweek cracks his head on the lid when he instinctively tries to jump backwards. Because there’s a skull grinning up at him, still with all the teeth intact, and ribs too! A whole skeleton, all shiny in the light of the streetlamps.  
Token, that bastard; is doubled over the steering wheel, slapping the dashboard and howling. Tweek quickly zips the bag back up and slams the trunk shut. “You total asshole,” he says, sliding back inside the car, but that only makes Token laugh harder.  
“Your, your _face,_ ” he wheezes, “You should’ve seen…!”  
Tweek just grunts in response, and busies himself putting his seatbelt on while he waits for Token to calm the hell down.  
“Sorry,” Token says at last, “I just… I could’ve really used your help today, yours _and_ Clyde’s. Jimmy and I did _not_ have an easy time, smuggling these guys out of school. We had to do it in _two_ trips, which made it _twice_ as risky.”  
“Uh, _I’m_ sorry,” Tweek drawls – then wishes he hadn’t, when his pissy tone sets Token off again. “So why’d you – Jesus, Token, will you calm down already?!” It’s hard to stay mad though. Especially when he remembers how Token was gripping the railing on Craig’s bed, back when Craig was still in a coma. How hard Token had fought against his own tears.  
“It’s a surprise for Craig,” Token chokes out at last. “Which you’d already _know_ about, if you ever bothered to check your phone. That creepy-ass photo you posted on Insta was Craig’s idea, right,” he adds, when Tweek just stares at him. “Didn’t you say he wished he could do a whole photo-shoot with those things? Well, now he can – all weekend long! We’ve just got to get ‘em back up there by Monday.”  
“Riiight.” Tweek sinks back into his seat. “Because there’s no _way_ that could ever go wrong.”

A skeleton weighs more than you’d think. Plus there’s the whole _spiritual_ weight of it, that is, the cold, crawling dread that at any point, someone will ask them what’s inside the bags. They went over this while they were still in the car; that they’ll only say it’s Craig’s photo equipment and hope for the best. Token even made a point of letting Tweek carry the female skeleton, since that one’s supposed to be lighter – hah. They make it past the downstairs receptionist without any problems, though. And there are less nurses and therapists on the evening shift, so the two of them just do their best to act natural.  
“So where’s Jimmy, anyway,” Tweek asks, while he shifts his bag of human bones from his right shoulder to his left. They’re standing in the second elevator, the one that’ll take them up to the floor Craig lives on.  
“Jimmy’s on Nugget-duty,” Token drawls. “That and his parents forbade him from tagging along. Which is fair enough, since he played dodge-ball in gym today. And that was _before_ the whole, you know…” Token nods his head at the bag he’s carrying.  
“Dodge-ball on crutches,” Tweek mutters; shaking his head, “Jesus Christ and _Santa Claus,_ man!”  
The doors ding open, and Tweek quickly looks up and down the corridor before he hurries outside. Ugh, his shoulder’s on fire! That walk down to Craig’s room – he remembers where it is, now – feels like a hundred miles.  
Craig’s on his phone, but he still opens the door on like, the second knock, and pulls Tweek into an awkward, one-armed hug. His balance seems to have improved a lot only since last week; Craig even walks backwards into the room to let them both in, and doesn’t stumble once. Mike’s in there too, sitting on his bed with a book, his legs stretched out in front of him. He gives them a quick wave and a cautious smile, before he picks the book back up again. Mike’s totally curious, though – and so is Craig. Tweek dumps his bag on Craig’s bed – easier to pick it up again if he doesn’t have to lift it from the floor – and he can totally feel Craig’s eyes drilling into his neck.  
“Dad, I gotta go,” Craig is saying, as he slips his arm around Tweek’s neck and pulls him close. “No, Tweek and Token just got here.” He rubs his nose into Tweek’s hair for just a second, and Tweek leans against him, all woozy with contentment. Peering over Craig’s shoulder, he can see how Token’s gone over to Mike’s bed, talking to the blonde boy and pointing at the gym bags, until Mike starts to nod and scoot over towards his wheelchair. In a place as boring as this, Tweek thinks, maybe some contraband human skeletons will be the perfect thing to break up the tedium.  
“Okay, I will,” Craig is saying, “See you tomorrow! My dad says hi,” he adds, sliding his phone into his back pocket so he can wrap both his arms around Tweek. “So babe, what the hell is _that?”_  
“It’s something to keep in your closet,” Tweek whispers into Craig’s neck, before he starts to giggle uncontrollably.


	33. Magic Mushroom Latte

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there. Sorry about the two-week gap between updates - I should be able to update more frequently from now on. 
> 
> EDIT: With regards to the Tweak Pizza featured in this chapter, I take NO responsibility for it if you decide their topping combos sound awesome, make said pizzas, and start to dry-heave. I literally just pulled those out of thin air, I've never made them and for all I know they'll be disgusting. (And yes, that's basically Nasai Dengaku on one of the pizzas - the Japanese aubergine dish where you marinate sliced aubergines in a mix of mirin and sugar and possibly other stuff, and bake it in the oven.) 
> 
> The song Tweek and Craig both reference is this one - I couldn't find exactly the version I was after on YouTube, which is the Maude Maggart version (her voice is like milk and honey) but I thought this one was cute because of the video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=segLJ-56WJU  
> This is the kind of stuff I imagine they'd play a lot in the background at Tweak Bros, just sort of relaxing old-timey stuff to have with your coffee and pastry.
> 
> And here's the song Tweek and Clyde listen to in the car, Emmylou Harris' cover of Born To Run: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7PIlw22Urro  
> Because for some reason, I imagine Mr Donovan would be quite partial to female country singers. Don't even ask me why. 
> 
> Please think of this chapter as falling into the "calm before the storm" category; because a storm is definitely brewing.

“Dude, you’re a little kid at Christmas,” Token is saying, shaking his head fondly, while Craig is cooing over the skeletons.  
“And the wires are all intact,” Craig asks, raising one of the female skeleton’s arms up, flexing the wrist experimentally.  
“Oh yeah, we just had to leave the poles and platforms behind,” Token replies, like this is a perfectly normal conversation to have in someone’s bedroom. “I figure I can just pick up a couple of broom handles from a hardware store tomorrow, though. Before I drive us all over here. Jimmy was saying to get telescopic rods, so you could adjust the height? But I’m just not sure if they’d support the weight.”  
Tweek turns to exchange a look with Mike, who seems to be hovering somewhere between fascinated and horrified. “Telescopic rods, huh,” Mike says, reaching up to scratch the back of his head. “Craig? Are you gonna… photograph them in here?”  
“Too small,” Craig replies distractedly, shaking his head. “Let me call my grandma, see if she can get us a…” He stops talking for a second, and looks right over at Tweek, “A studio?”  
“A studio,” Tweek repeats, nodding. Of course Mrs Tucker would know about stuff like that, since she’s in a camera club and everything. “Is it too late to call her now? It’s just, we have to put these back by Monday morning.”  
Craig shakes his head. “I can call her whenever,” he says, zipping the bag back up before he pulls his phone from his pocket. He slips other his arm around Tweek’s waist for a second, for the fastest of hugs. Like he _knows_ there are two guys watching them, but he just can’t help himself. Maybe Craig was just so starved for touch and warmth, back when he didn’t have his body and never thought he’d get it back.  
Tweek can’t help but feel that they’re making Craig’s roommate uncomfortable, though, so he doesn’t cling to Craig’s arm when he pulls it back. Even though he kind of wants to.  
That’s when an idea hits him, like a bolt of lightning.  
“Wayang puppets,” Tweek says.  
Token blinks at him. “Come again?”  
“Sorry, what I meant was – gah! – wait!” Tweek unzips the bag again, and pulls one of the arms out. He’s not used to handling the cold bones yet, and it sends a shiver through him. “Mike, do you have – ngh! – a ruler or something?! And maybe some tape?”  
“Sure, Tweek! Just give me a minute!” Mike’s desk does indeed contain sticky-tape, and three rulers – a curved one, a triangle one, and a perfectly normal one, which is the one Tweek selects. It turns out that Mike, who must be at _least_ a year older than them, has been tutoring Craig in stuff like maths and English. Token and the others have been bringing over Craig’s textbooks and school supplies, as well as their own photocopied assignments. How come Tweek’s never even twigged that this has been going on? “I’m hoping it makes up for Craig having to partner with me during workouts,” Mike says, shrugging the whole thing off. “My balance is like a toddler’s!”  
“Slave-driver,” Craig says, in his usual deadpan way, but it’s perfectly obvious that he doesn’t mean it.  
Grunting with concentration, Tweek winds the tape around the inner bones of the skeleton’s hand, what would have been the palm if there had been flesh. “Look,” he says, raising the ruler and making the hand move, “If we get more sticks or whatever, and some sturdier tape, we can move them around! Like Wayang puppets!”  
Craig, who still appears to be on the phone, is staring open-mouthed from the other side of the room.  
“There is a thin line between spaz and genius,” Token drawls, while Tweek carefully turns the skeleton’s hand around, waving it at Craig.  
Mike just shakes his head and laughs. “How’d you even come up with that,” he marvels, holding his palm out flat. If the skeletons grossed him out at first, he seems to have got over it now.  
“My mom once dumped me off at this Wayang-puppet workshop,” Tweek replies, obligingly bringing the hand around to give Mike a careful high-five. “We were staying at some temple for a couple weeks one summer, and the grown-ups put on this super terrifying puppet show. And afterwards, Mom was all, “And now you get to make your own,” and ran away to meditate or whatever.” Tweek rolls his eyes at the ceiling. “It was actually a lot less scary, once I realized you could make them out of like, cereal boxes and stuff. Stay still, okay,” he adds, raising the skeleton’s hand up further and very carefully petting Mike’s cheek with it.  
“Hold it right there,” Craig snaps, hurrying over to them, so fast that he stumbles and has to catch himself on Token’s shoulder. Always the same leg giving out, huh? He brings his phone around, takes a quick picture from one angle; then walks behind the wheelchair to take another one. Menwhile, Token keeps a steadying hand around his arm. Craig doesn’t even seem to notice  
“Hey,” Mike protests weakly, starting to blush, “No offense, Craig? But I don’t really want to be in your pictures.”  
“This is just for eggnog,” Craig tells him, before he sits, then lies down on the floor, to take one last picture upwards. “So I can put the shots together later.”  
“You mean reference, don’t you,” Token’s saying, as he offers Craig a hand up.  
“Yeah, sure,” Craig agrees, too distracted for embarrassment, as he ignores Token’s hand and ducks under Tweek’s arm instead. Kissing him right on the lips.  
“Gah!” Tweek’s so startled that he just drops down on his butt, literally falling out of the kiss, and yanking the ruler out of the tape. The skeleton’s hand smacks poor Mike in the chest as it drops, right above his heart. “I’m sorry!”  
“It’s fine,” Mike assures him; he even manages a weak laugh – but really, who’d _enjoy_ getting slapped by a skeleton-arm?! You’d have to have some really specific, niche fetish – and Mike seems so incredibly corn-fed and _normal_ that Tweek kind of doubts he would. Not to mention… “Tweek,” he’s saying, leaning closer. “Are you okay?”  
“Ngh…” Tweek closes his eyes for a second. Should he really say it? Does he want to? “I’m sorry if it’s weird for you to watch two guys kiss,” he blurts out, almost yelling the words right into Mike’s concerned face.  
“What?” Craig’s roommate looks so stunned, and so embarrassed that Tweek’s gone and pointed out the elephant in the room, that Tweek instantly wishes he’d kept his mouth shut. “Oh gosh, I’m sorry if it came across like that! I honestly don’t mind, I’m just not used to…” Mike’s handsome face creases up with concern, and he pulls his hand through his blonde fringe, tugging on it. “I’m not even Mormon anymore! And even when I was, I always thought people should just be allowed to like who they like! I am _so_ sorry if I’ve made you uncomfortable, Tweek!”  
Mormon, Tweek thinks. Oh holy crap. That explains, well, everything. Utah’s only the next state over, after all, not that there aren’t plenty of Mormons living in Colorado too. “Uh,” he says, “No? I mean, you haven’t!” He shakes his head fiercely, inadvertently rubbing his cheek against Craig’s, which has just the tiniest hint of stubble. “I’m so sorry if _I_ made _you_ think that _I_ thought that… Uh, I mean…”  
Craig snorts as he carefully kisses the top of Tweek’s head. “Don’t ever change, babe,” he mutters into Tweek’s hair, and Tweek can feel him shaking with silent laughter. 

After they’ve finished stashing the skeletons – the second one does fit under Craig’s bed, and he insists it’s not going to give him nightmares – Craig takes Tweek and Token downstairs to the canteen via the lift. Mike opts to stay in the room and read; probably because he doesn’t want to intrude on Craig’s time with his friends, even though Craig asks him twice if he wants to tag along.  
At this time of night, the canteen’s almost empty – only a handful of patients have brought their visitors here; but Tweek does notice how the patients seem to be across the age spectrum. There’s a guy in a wheelchair who must easily be Mom and Dad’s age; chatting with his wife while balancing a toddler on his lap. And on one of the two sofas, there’s an even older woman – Mr Donovan’s age, probably – with a pair of crutches like the ones Jimmy uses propped up against the armrest, sitting with a younger woman who looks so similar that they _have_ to be mother and daughter.  
There’s a hot drinks machine you can use for free, and some fruit and snacks laid out in baskets, as well as water bottles – fizzy and still – left out in the open drinks cooler. “You can take whatever you want,” Craig says, as his finger traces a line up and down Tweek’s spine.  
“Mm,” Tweek replies, without moving.  
Craig’s hat’s on crooked, so Tweek reaches up to straighten it, only he can’t help but slip his fingertips underneath. Just to feel that silky-soft black hair. Those brown bottle-glass eyes widen, and Craig’s lips part in a toothy smile.  
“Hey Craig,” Token says, from somewhere far, far away, “You feel another poem coming on?”  
“You…!” Craig’s long arm shoots past Tweek, who gives a startled yelp, and his hand makes a grab for Token. But Token easily dances out of his reach, laughing so happily that Tweek can’t help but laugh along.  
The coffee machine is not great – not that Tweek was expecting it to be – but he’s stayed in enough shitty hotels with his parents to know there are _ways_ around these things. “See how stupidly small the cups are,” he asks, jerking his head at the tray of identical tiny white cups. “But if we use a glass, we can _really_ get our money’s worth!”  
“It’s free, though, babe,” Craig mutters, slipping his arm around Tweek’s waist while he presses the “Single Coffee” button.  
“Dude, Professor Tweak’s teaching a class here,” Token says, leaning against the counter and grinning. “I wanna hear this. So what’s the trick?”  
“The trick – pass me a spoon, will you? Thanks – the trick is to make sure nobody sees you.” Tweek tilts the glass a little, before he presses the “Hot Chocolate” button. “Like, stand at an angle, okay? So you can hide what you’re doing from the staff.” Once that’s finished, and it really is a pathetically tiny amount, he presses it again, tilting the glass some more. Then he pops one of the milk capsules over it, stirs the mixture with the spoon, and hands the whole thing over to Token. “Voi- _la,_ ” he says, grinning up at the taller boy. “Your mocha is ready, sir.”  
“That’s… actually not too bad,” Token says, sipping his drink cautiously. “Almost as nice as the ones you give me in the morning! I’d never have thought of doing that!”  
“Tweek brings you coffee in the morning,” Craig asks, his voice suddenly flat enough that Tweek _knows_ he’s choking down some jealously.  
“As thanks for driving me to school,” Tweek tells him, as casually as he can. “Jesus, my upbringing wasn’t _that_ terrible, okay? Hurry up and get better,” he adds, pulling Craig’s other arm around his waist, too, until he’s practically wearing his boyfriend like an overcoat. “And I’ll make you one too.” He tips his head back, and gives Craig the cheekiest grin he can manage. “Coffee in the morning, kisses in the night – right? It’s, it’s from a song,” he adds, suddenly embarrassed, as he ducks his head again.  
“I _know_ it’s from a song,” Craig mutters into his hair, his breath hot against Tweek’s scalp.  
Token clears his throat, and they jump apart guiltily.  
Tweek ends up making a second mocha for Craig, though at Craig’s insistence, he puts two “shots” in there. Then he puts three single coffee “shots” into a glass for himself – he almost does a fourth one, but Craig pulls his finger off the button, and whispers, “Don’t you want to sleep, honey?” So instead, Tweek empties about five or six milk capsules in there, before topping the mixture up with hot water. He grimaces when he takes a quick sip – it’s not great, but it’ll have to do.  
Tweek carries both of their drinks – “You just focus on not tripping,” he tells Craig firmly – over to the second sofa, which Token’s gone and snagged for them. It’s in a secluded corner of the canteen; they won’t need to watch what they’re saying quite so carefully. Out of the corner of his eye, Tweek sees Craig stuffing his pockets with fruit instead. He’s wearing one of those fleece hoodies with zip-up pockets, filling them up with handfuls of grapes, a red apple – he even fits a whole banana in there somehow. Token’s already taken his purple Converse off, so Tweek and Craig both kick their shoes off, too. With Token folded up in one corner, Craig can stretch one leg out along the length off the sofa, the other dangling off the side. And Tweek can sit between them, facing Token and leaning against Craig’s chest – after Craig’s piled all the fruit he took on the coffee table next to them. Craig is so warm, and even the crunch-crunch of him chewing his apple is soothing. For just a couple of seconds, Tweek is filled to the brim with so much contentment that he almost doesn’t know what to do with himself.  
Then Token says, “So, can we talk about how Cartman tried to kill Clyde’s dad?”  
Craig stops chewing and swears, very quietly. “If his shitty car hadn’t broken down, he’d be dead,” Craig mutters, and his left arm tightens around Tweek’s shoulders.  
“If his car hadn’t broken down, he also wouldn’t have been in the shop,” Token points out. “I think what we need to figure out is, what exactly was Cartman trying to do?”  
“You mean,” Tweek says, thinking out loud, “Did he _want_ to murder Mr Donovan? Or did he want to burn the store down, and make Mr Donovan think my dad did it?”  
Token is nodding, like Tweek’s actually said something clever. “He could’ve wanted to pin insurance fraud on Clyde’s dad, too. He’d lose the store, maybe even go to prison…?”  
“Maybe…” As Craig starts to talk, Tweek and Token look at one another. Friendship telepathy zings through the air between them. Craig sounds like he’s in the middle of understanding something, and the last thing they should do is interrupt his thought process now. “Maybe what Tinkerbell wanted, was to hurt as many of you as he could,” Craig says at last. “All of you at once. Tinkerbell’s always hated Nugget, but he’s got to be pissed with Tweek, too, for getting _him_ expelled and getting his bestie locked up. Right?”  
Tweek starts to say, “You could be – ”, just as Token snorts, “Tinkerbell?”  
“What’re you _talking_ about,” Craig snaps, but Token’s already got his phone out, with a screenshot from Disney’s Peter Pan up on the display.  
“ _This_ is what I’m talking about,” he says, holding the picture right under Craig’s nose, so his eyes almost cross while he’s trying to look at it. “ _This_ is what you’re saying, instead of Cartman’s name!”  
Craig’s eyes narrow suspiciously. “You’re shitting me.”  
“Sorry, Craig,” Tweek whispers, before he grabs his glass off the low coffee table and takes a sip of his ghetto latte. It really isn’t too bad, he decides, just kind of… weak. And tasteless.  
“And you thought Nugget was bad.” Token’s just about to slip his phone back into his pocket; when it starts to buzz and play Nina Simone. “Excuse me,” he unfurls his long legs and gets to his feet, “I’ve got to take this.”  
Suddenly, Craig’s apple is held in front of Tweek’s face; an obvious invitation. Tweek only considers it for a second before he jerks his chin up to take a bite; it’s normal to share food with your boyfriend, right? It’s impossibly sweet, and so good, he quickly takes a second bite.  
“Clyde and I asked them to check for Cartman,” Tweek says, talking with his mouth full. “On the CCTV at the mall. I know he could’ve tried to make Stotch do it, but I think _he’d_ be too scared…?”  
“Yeah,” Craig agrees, before taking a bite of the apple again. “Token’s gonna make you leave,” he adds, pointing with the hand still holding the apple. Token’s pacing back and forth, gesturing with his free hand. “His mom doesn’t like him driving at night.”  
Tweek sighs, and lies back flat against Craig’s chest, before he turns over on his side. At least now, with Token gone, he can stretch his legs all the way out without worrying about kicking anyone. “I miss being together all the time,” he mutters into Craig’s fleece jacket.  
“Me too, babe.” For a little while, they stay like this; then Craig shifts a little. “Listen, are you guys going anywhere for Thanksgiving? Because there’s a chance I could go home for the day, and then my parents want to invite you three over.”  
Tweek sits up, so fast he almost smacks his own face into Craig’s hand. “Are you serious?!” His heartbeat has gone from drowsy to “Maximum Adrenaline” in exactly zero seconds; it’s a wonder he hasn’t fainted from the shock already.  
“Yeah,” Craig nods, smiling crookedly. “Completely serious. They want to… get to know you guys.”  
“My parents, though,” Tweek wails, “You’ve _met_ my parents! It’s gonna be a total _disaster!_ ”  
“It’ll be fine, honey,” Craig says, pulling Tweek back down to rest against his chest, even though he can’t help but buckle like a fish under Craig’s arm. “My grandma’s gonna be there, too. Just talk to them beforehand, okay? Ask them not to mention… stuff. Like my sister’s eggs,” he adds, frowning, “Which I don’t even think she’s developed yet?”  
Tweek groans, squirming until he’s lying on his stomach with his face pressed into Craig’s ribs. “I’ll try,” he mutters. Maybe if he starts with Mom…  
“You’ll do fine,” Craig tells him, before he tucks his chin over Tweek’s head – just like Dad sometimes does with Mom. Come to think of it, Dad even did it to her this morning, over at Tweak Bros. It’s such a cosy, familiar gesture that somehow, it’s made Tweek’s heart slow right down again.  
“Okay,” he says; a little more confident than before. He can write them a list, of topics they’re not supposed to go near. Oh, but…! “But we can’t eat turkey, or anything like that,” he yelps, pushing himself up on his arms as the thought hits him. “Your parents are going to think that’s mega rude!”  
“I told them about that already.” Craig almost sounds like he finds this whole thing funny, but he _wouldn’t_ … Right? “Everything’ll be completely vegetarian. Mom’s just happy you guys aren’t _vegan,_ ” he adds, chuckling quietly. “Then she’d have to take down the Death to All Vegans sign from the kitchen. The one I made,” he adds, when Tweek blinks at him. “In wood-shop.”  
“I think I made a fruit-bowl,” Tweek says, before he plants a super-quick kiss on Craig’s lips. Then he carefully lies back down on top of Craig. “You’ll tell me if I’m too heavy, right?”  
“Nah,” Craig says, but it’s impossible to tell what he means. If he means that Tweek’s not heavy at all, or that he’d never tell Tweek if he was. The hand that isn’t still holding the half-eaten apple is drawing big, soothing circles on Tweek’s back. 

Their mothers have now reached that special level of parental admin – Super Seiyan level? – where they’ve agreed on Tweek and Token’s behalf that Token’s coming over for dinner. Maybe that’s Mom’s way of showing how much she appreciates Token ferrying him back and forth; Tweek knows she hates feeling like she owes someone a favour. Or maybe it’s because of the website Token built; which has had a _lot_ of hits since it went live. Token showed Dad how to monitor the hit-counts and stats, and it’s something Dad’s taken to checking on his phone if things are going slow at the coffee shop.  
“You know,” Tweek says, while they’re driving down Main Street, which is creepily empty at this time of night, “I’m going to come off the Xanax.”  
“Yessss,” Token says, his hand briefly forming a fist before it lands on the gear stick, making some adjustment or other. “Dude, you have no idea how glad I am to hear that. I’ve been reading this book about –” he seems to catch himself, and clears his throat. “I mean, it’s scary,” he says, clearly changing tack, “How addictive benzodiazepines can be.”  
“I just wanted to warn you.” Tweek gazes out the window, at the shuttered façade of the Photo Dojo. Nobody’s even bothered to open a new business there. “I might be a real asshole by this time next week. From the withdrawal symptoms, I mean.”  
“Oh right, the so-called benzo-rage,” Token says, and he sounds so much like Dr Hoffman in that moment that Tweek can’t help but wonder how many books Token’s read on this subject, and what sort of timespan he’s read them in. “If you want,” he goes on, “I can mention it to Jimmy and Clyde, and the girls? But I’m surprised you didn’t bring it up with Craig.”  
“Not in front of Mike.” Tweek can feel his cheeks start to burn. “I’m not going to, to sit there and talk about how I’m on Xanax for trying to _kill_ myself, in front of someone who’s got all the reasons in the _world_ to…” To despise someone like me, he thinks, but doesn’t say. Just look at that guy, still so kind and upbeat after an accident that screwed him over for the rest of his _life._ Telling someone like that about how he almost jumped off the school roof, it would seem… insulting.  
“Dude,” Token says, as they drive past the Bijou cinema, and the unexpectedly dark façade of Tweak Bros – did Dad close up early? “Whatever you’re thinking. _Nobody_ thinks that of you.”  
“How do _you_ know what I’m thinking,” Tweek mutters, glancing quickly in Token’s direction.  
“It’s all over your face,” Token replies, without even a hint of a smirk – he’s totally not kidding. “But trust me, nobody thinks you were weak, or _bad_ or whatever. Nobody thinks that was _your_ fault; it’s more like, like _we_ all feel guilty because we _let_ that happen. Right under our noses.” To Tweek’s surprise, he then pulls up outside of Tweak Bros and parks the Prius on the kerb. “Okay?”  
“Okay,” Tweek says, but it comes out more like a question.  
“Great. You’ve got your keys, right? For the shop,” Token prompts him, jerking his chin at Tweak Bros.  
“Um, yeah?” Those keys are pretty much a permanent fixture on Tweek’s keychain, along with his house keys and locker key for school. There’s also the derpy little alien charm his uncle Martin once bought him, when the whole extended Tweak family was on holiday together in California. They'd been walking around some craft fair, and his uncle had caught Tweek staring at them, hanging from a rack.  
“Come on, then!” Token jumps out of the car, and thumbs his key-fob to pop the hood. “I’m technically not supposed to park here. They’re supposed to be behind the counter,” he adds, while Tweek is still crouched by the glass door, struggling with the bottom lock.  
Tweek turns to look up at him. “Huh?!”  
Token shakes his head, laughing quietly. “You don’t check your messages at all, do you?”  
Tweek just grunts in reply – busted.  
“Okay, so our parents have this whole group chat, right,” Token explains, as Tweek finally gets the door open and pushes it inside, fumbling along the doorframe for the alarm button. “And Mr Donovan invited your parents to join it. So after the shoe store burned down, you know how his overstock turned out to be fine?”  
Tweek, who’s just run up to the counter and looked over it, can see where this is going. Because there’s literally the Wall of Jericho in shoeboxes lined up behind it, with only a narrow path left bare so you can walk back to the staff room and open the door. When he does, the blast of ice-cold air literally blows his hair back; because the air-con’s on the maximum setting in there. And there are shoes _everywhere._ On every conceivable surface. Stiletto heels all over the kitchen counter, sneakers on the cooker, snow-boots lined up against the walls. Stacks of carefully flattened shoeboxes teeter against the refrigerators, and someone’s pulled the industrial dishwasher open to balance men’s dress shoes on the actual dish racks. Tweek can’t help but pull his phone out and take a photo of _that._  
“So your dad, apparently, posted on that thread asking if the shoes actually smelled of smoke; and if that’d make them harder to sell. Clyde’s dad hadn’t thought of that, but the first thing he did after they discharged him from hospital, was to get over to the store and check. And of course they stank, so then your dad suggested _this._ ”  
Jesus. Tweek closes his eyes, and rubs his hands over his face. “Of course he did.”  
“My mom says your dad’s good at thinking outside the box.”  
Tweek snorts quietly. “You could say that, yeah.”  
It doesn’t even take them that long to move all the shoe boxes into the Prius, once they’ve established a system. First, they move them all over to the door, where they stack them in wobbly towers, carefully balanced against the front windows. Then, Token stands outside while Tweek passes him two boxes at a time, playing real-life Tetris with them as he fills up first the trunk, and then the back seat. Tweek’s just relieved he doesn’t have to share the passenger seat with any boxes, but if the Prius had seams, they would be _bursting_. While they work, Token explains how all their parents have taken a load of shoes each – except for Craig’s parents, who have been on a separate group chat since the accident. Two of the guest rooms at his parents’ house are now full of shoes, as are the Valmers’ garage.  
“And Clyde’s entire _house_ is probably packed with them,” Token is saying, while Tweek double-checks that he’s switched the alarm back on, and locks the coffee shop up again. “Anyway, the deal is that we take these back to your house, and your parents give us pizza. Which you’d know about,” he gives Tweek a meaningful look, “ _If_ you checked your phone once in a blue moon.”  
“Pizza, huh,” Tweek says, as he pulls his seatbelt on, and gives Token his most insolent grin. “Pizza sounds good.”  
“You little shit,” Token tells him, but fondly, as he eases the Prius down from the sidewalk. 

As soon as they walk into the hallway, Tweek knows: his parents are _making_ pizza, from scratch. The smell whafts out to wrap itself around him, warm and familiar; melted cheese and fried vegetables and tomato sauce. This is something they’ve been doing since they were in high school together; baking the dough, trying out different combinations of toppings that _sound_ weird but _taste_ incredible.  
“Hey,” he calls out, hopping on first one foot, and then the other, to pull his trainers off. “We’re back!”  
“And we brought all the shoes from behind the counter,” Token chimes in, hanging his pricey-looking dark purple jacket up next to Jimmy’s bright yellow windbreaker.  
“Great,” Dad shouts, from inside the kitchen, “We’ll deal with that later, come eat!”  
In the living room, Jimmy’s stretched out on the sofa, with his jeans rolled up and his legs propped at an angle on one of the backrest cushions. His crutches are on the floor, where Jimmy can easily reach them. “I’m n-not allowed to m-m-move,” he says sheepishly, raising his hand in a wave. Someone – Mom, probably – seems to have pulled the entire contents of the freezer out and distributed them over Jimmy’s legs, after wrapping all the packets in stripy kitchen towels. “So, w-what did Craig say, when he s-saw… _you_ know…?” Jimmy wags his bushy eyebrows, clearly not keen to say the “S-word” when there are parents around.  
“He was sooo happy,” Token drawls, while he casually walks over and lifts what turns out to be a packet of oven-fries from Jimmy’s left food. “It’s gone down a bit,” he says, nodding to himself, before he puts the packet back down. “Craig’s doing a photo-shoot with them tomorrow – his grandma’s booking a studio, and we’re all invited. I just need to…” Token yawns, “Talk to Nicole…”  
Tweek leaves them to it, and runs into the kitchen, where Clyde and his dad are setting the table for seven. Clyde’s still wearing the clothes Dad lent him this morning; an old blue flannel shirt over that Ace Ventura T-shirt Dad’s had since before the dawn of time. It’s shapeless and huge, and super-soft from being washed a million times; Mom sometimes steals it to sleep in.  
“Tweek,” Clyde yells, grinning from ear to ear. “You were right!”  
“Huh?”  
“The security footage,” Mr Donovan says, before he covers his mouth to muffle a very small cough. “Eric Cartman’s on there. Twice.”

While they wait for the last two pizzas to finish baking, Clyde puts his scratched-up laptop on the table. The hinges have been reinforced with blue duct tape, so this thing might just be in worse shape than Tweek’s laptop, which is saying _something._ They all crowd around to watch the video clips; even Jimmy gets permission to leave the couch, though Tweek’s pretty sure he must’ve seen this already.  
“There he is,” Clyde says, pointing with the handle of a fork, as the unmistakable form of Eric Cartman walks down the length of the store window, then back up. Finally, he comes inside. “I think he was trying to see what the camera’s blind spots might be,” Clyde goes on, as Cartman pulls _something_ out of his pocket. It’s hard to see what he’s doing, since he’s taking care to conceal his movements with his body; but he’s got one hand down his side, and it seems to be moving at a regular rhythm.  
“W-we reckon that could be lighter f-fluid,” Jimmy says, leaning over Tweek’s shoulder. The familiar smell of whatever laundry detergent Mrs Valmer always buys is a reassuring contrast to what he’s watching, as Cartman walks all around the perimeter of the shop.  
“See, this is where I finally spotted him,” Mr Donovan says, reaching past Clyde’s arm and tapping his own image on the screen. “I asked him why he wasn’t in school, because it was only one in the afternoon. Not being confrontational – just firm, you know?”  
“But I’m guessing he got all defensive,” Token asks, as Cartman’s rotund figure starts waving its arms on the grainy footage.  
Mr Donovan laughs quietly; then muffles another cough with his fist. “You could say that. He told me he was expelled – and that it was all _your_ fault, Clyde.” He obviously finds that funny as hell, but Tweek can see how Clyde’s face hardens. Sometimes, it sucks to be right.  
“He w-was lying, anyway,” Jimmy throws in, holding his phone up, “I’ve got Esther _and_ Bradley saying he’s b-been skipping s-s-school a _lot_ since he transferred to M-Middle Park.”  
“Your “sources”, huh,” Tweek says, but he’s only half paying attention. The way Clyde’s gone all quiet is starting to worry him.  
“Okay,” Mom yells from over by the oven, “Dinner’s ready! Laptops away!”  
“We’re saving the best for last,” Mr Donovan promises, as Clyde slaps the screen down and shoves the laptop roughly inside his backpack. “When he comes back, he’s wearing a disguise!” Tweek can see how Clyde’s bending at least one softcover textbook in the process, scrunching the pages up – not that he seems to notice, or care. 

Only years of careful experimentation can produce pizza topping combos as weird and wonderful as Brie, broccoli and sundried tomatoes, or Edam with edamame-beans (that one’s a direct result of Dad finding it funny that they sounded the same, then being shocked at how delicious it had turned out), and aubergine, sweet-corn and shiitake mushrooms doused in goats’ cheese. Tweek’s parents have made a total of six pizzas, on the general assumption that boys will eat anything and everything, and also because they just love doing this sort of thing together.  
“If there’s anything left, we can always freeze it,” Mom says, shrugging, before she grabs a slice with Portobello mushroom, finely-chopped red onion and yellow pepper off the closest plate. Space and seating are pretty limited in here now; but somehow they all manage to fit around the table anyway. Tweek and Clyde have grabbed a deck-chair each, while Mom is perched on Dad’s lap.  
“That’s a big if,” Dad drawls, before he has a bite of his aubergine slice. The way peeled aubergine melts in the heat is just the _best,_ especially if you sprinkle it with this mixture of rice-wine and sugar that Mom got out of a Japanese cookbook.  
“You know,” Mr Donovan says – he’s the only one who hasn’t taken a bite out of his first slice yet – “I had to google what “polyamorous” means.”  
Tweek chokes on his slice of Brie and broccoli, and Jimmy helpfully slaps his back until Tweek has to wave him away, because _ouch._  
“They, ah, they make me sound way cooler than I actually am, I suppose.” Mr Donovan coughs again, until Clyde shoves his own glass of water into his hand and makes him drink all of it. “But,” he hacks, “I really am sorry about…”  
“Pfft,” Mom says, waving her hand. “There’s no gossip like small-town gossip. It’ll all die down soon enough.” She sounds way more chilled about the whole thing now, after she’s had some sleep, a shower and a change of clothes. Still. Tweek remembers how close to tears she was, back at the coffee shop. “Until then, Roger, you can be my second husband if you want – right, Richie?”  
“Mm,” Dad says, nodding with his mouth full. “And maybe I should add a “Magic Mushroom Latte” to the menu,” he adds, as soon as he’s swallowed, “Just to really milk _all_ those rumours? I could use food-colouring on the foam,” he goes on, like he’s starting to seriously consider it. “Pink and green, maybe?”  
“Dad, _no,_ ” Tweek groans, but everyone else is laughing – even Clyde – and Jimmy’s put his hand on his heart, swearing that he’ll buy one _every day_ if Dad actually does it.  
“And can it please be c-c-caramel flavoured,” he adds, before he snatches up a slice of the bell-pepper and truffle pizza – Tweek needs to hustle if he wants one of those.  
“Caramel and hazelnut,” Tweek hears himself say. Then he smacks his own palm into his forehead; but it’s too late, because now Token _and_ Mom are both saying how that actually sounds kind of nice.  
“See,” Dad says, reaching out to dump a huge slice of aubergine pizza on Tweek’s plate, “ _This_ is how we’ll get back at those idiots. By making money off their stupid lies.” 

Saturday morning starts off on kind of a sour note, when Clyde and his dad show up to car-pool and discover that someone’s stopped by to key the Datsun during the night. “You know it wasn’t me,” Mr Donovan says, as soon as Tweek’s opened the door, still with his toothbrush clenched between his teeth like a cigar. “But well, they tried to make it look like me.”  
_DON’T BURN MY STORE DOWN_ the unseen vandal has written, scraping huge block letters into the whole length of the Datsun’s right side.  
“Well,” Mom says laconically, “It’s a bit late for that now, isn’t it,” while Dad swears and Tweek spits water and toothpaste into the bushes.  
“If that Cartman boy writes a book called How Not to Be a Criminal, you could sell it at Tweak Bros next to Mrs Tucker’s book,” Mr Donovan says, and puts his hand on Dad’s shoulder.  
Dad snorts. “That’d be a bestseller,” he mutters, before he starts rubbing his arms and herding everyone inside.  
So they all have a quick cup of coffee – except Clyde, of course, who sticks to the jasmine tea – to recoup, because it’s still only seven in the morning and Tweak Bros doesn’t open until eight-thirty on Saturdays. Mr Donovan, who’s set to borrow the Datsun while Mom and Dad are working anyway, promises to take it to the auto-shop and make a big deal out of booking a new paint job. “I’ll pay in advance too,” he says, waving Dad’s protests away. “Come on, that brat only had the chance to get at your car because your garage is full of my overstock!”  
They split up after that – Clyde and Tweek get into the Rabbit, and head for Denver, while their parents go off to Tweak Bros to pack up Mr Donovan’s overstock before the workday starts. Tweek hopes one night of being aired out in the back room has been enough to get that bonfire smell out; the shoes in the garage still smell a bit funky, but then they don’t have air-con in there. Just a bunch of desk fans Mr Donovan picked up from Target last night.  
“Hey listen,” Tweek says, as he opens the glove compartment. Just for something to do. “I’m gonna… come off my medication soon.”  
“Oh,” Clyde says, eyes fixed on the road as he’s changing lanes, “Okay. That’s probably a good thing.”  
“I guess.” Tweek pulls out an honest-to-god cassette tape – _that’s_ how old the Rabbit is – and holds it up so he can read the sun-faded title that runs down the side. _Emmylou Harris – Cimarron._ “It’s just that… I might not act like myself? I might get really angry, or really sick…”  
“Don’t worry about it ‘till it happens,” Clyde tells him, with a big, easy-going shrug. He’s pushed the driver’s seat as far back as it can go, to make space for his long legs. “You won’t hurt _my_ little feelings that easily, if that’s what you’re worried about?”  
Tweek snorts. “Yeah, right,” he says, but he does feel a little bit better. “Hey, uh, do I have a colour?”  
Clyde gives him a quick, sidelong glance. “Excuse me?”  
“You know; that stuff you said about seeing each day of the week as a different colour. Does that apply to people, too?”  
Clyde goes silent for ten minutes or so – not like he’s annoyed; more like he’s looking for an answer that Tweek will understand. “I always have to know someone for a while,” he says at last, “Before I can see what their colour is. I mean, I _guess_ I’ve known you for years, since we were always in the same class and all, but…” Clyde shrugs, and reaches down to change gears. “I didn’t really _get to_ know you until that day you came back from hospital. Until we fought Cartman and McCormick together. After that, when we were waiting for Mackie to see us… It was like you suddenly started glowing, you know?” A blush is slowly starting to spread through Clyde’s cheeks. “This sounds totally gay, right?”  
“Not exactly,” Tweek replies, while he pulls the cassette out of the little box it comes in, and shoves it back in. “To me it felt like, like you were sort of asleep, back then? So maybe that fight… woke you up?” Out comes the cassette tape, then back in it goes, and it’s such a strangely soothing thing to do.  
“Maybe,” Clyde says, and he manages to sound both super relieved and deathly embarrassed, at the same time. “Anyway. It’s sort of golden. This like, warm, orangey yellow. Like, I don’t know, ochre?” Clyde clears his throat. “Dude, this is like… Like trying to explain a private language, or something.”  
Tweek can’t help but smile. “So it’s weird to talk about,” he asks, slotting the cassette back in, before he takes it out again. Hello OCD, my old friend, he thinks, mildly annoyed that he can’t make it scan with the melody of _Sound of Silence._  
“ _Incredibly_ weird,” Clyde says, as a smile tugs at his lips. “Say, you wanna listen to that, or should I just roll the window down and throw it out?”  
“Asshole,” Tweek tells him, laughing as he slots the cassette into the Rabbit’s ancient radio. Pretty soon, Emmylou Harris’ warm, pure voice has filled up the little old car, wrapping itself around them both.  
“Just to feel free, and be someone,” she sings, as Clyde slides them onto the freeway, towards Denver, and Craig, “I was born to be fast, I was born to run.”


	34. Don't kill yourself

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Full disclosure, all I know about synasthesia, I learned from the internet, and this one really trippy exhibition I went to. So it's entirely possible I'm getting things wrong - but, as far as I know, there are more recorded types of synasthesia than we can count, so why _shouldn't_ there be one where you associate colors with taste? I imagine it would almost be like having a meal twice; first you taste the idea of it, triggered by the colors of the food, just by looking at it. And then you'd eat and taste the meal itself.

“Look at you,” Janet Tucker is saying, poking her finger into Clyde’s side as he pulls up into an empty spot outside the studio building. “I remember a time when you and Craig drew all over the walls in his room, and then you tried to eat one of his crayons. And here you are now, driving a car.”  
Clyde laughs. “Probably the red one, right? I always thought red was the tastiest colour.”  
Mrs Tucker has the passenger seat now, and Tweek’s moved to the back. In the rear-view mirror, he can see her raise one eyebrow. “Oh really – colours have flavours, now?”  
“I guess to me, they do,” Clyde says, and laughs again.  
After Mrs Tucker has filled in a parking permit slip that goes in the Rabbit’s front window; the two boys start hauling everything out of the car. At Craig’s request, each of them brought two changes of clothes – black pants and a black shirt, as well as blue jeans and a white T-shirt. If he’s doing a whole photo-series, Craig had explained last night, he’d want to have everyone dressed the same. There’s also the white paint and rollers they picked up at a hardware store just around the block; as well as two broom handles and some scrap wood for the skeletons.  
“At least that’ll save Token a trip,” Tweek says, bundling all the wood up in his arms while Clyde hoists the tub of paint, grunting in reply.  
The studio Mrs Tucker’s booked them is only on the ground floor; and the reason they got here so early is to paint exactly half the room white. “By painting it white, we’re going to use the light that’s reflected off the walls,” Mrs Tucker explains, while the two boys pull their shoes off and tape plastic bags around their stockinged feet. It’s very much a case of the “royal we”, here – not that Tweek would _want_ Craig’s grandma to help out! “But we’re using matte paint, because glossy paint would just reflect the light all over the place.”  
Clyde shrugs. “I still don’t get it,” he says, using one of his keys to pop the paint can open, “But that’s okay. As long as it helps Craig take his pictures.” Tweek can see that the room’s already been painted white; many times over, but that there are footprints on the floor, scuff-marks and greasy finger-stains on the walls. It probably doesn’t take a lot, to get an all-white room dirty.  
Using the hand-rollers, it doesn’t even take the two of them that long; especially since they don’t even need to go looking for a ladder. Clyde is tall enough that, if he stands on tip-toe, he can reach the ceiling with his roller; and Tweek quickly hits upon jury-rigging his own roller with some tape, fastening it to one of the broom handles. They paint exactly half the room; and it’s not even eleven by the time they’re done – ten forty-one!  
“Dude, we make the _best_ team.” Clyde holds his paint-splattered hand out for a high-five, which Tweek enthusiastically returns – “Yup!” – grinning up at the other boy.  
“So, hey,” Tweek goes on, while they’re peeling their sweaty, paint-stained T-shirts off, “Does _white_ have a taste, too?”  
Clyde looks at him like he’s gone nuts. “Of course not! White’s not a colour! It’s like… like the _absence_ of colour. You can’t taste _nothing,_ can you!” He’s so serious about it that Tweek can’t help but laugh.  
“So when we had pizza last night,” Tweek goes on, turning his back on Clyde while he pulls his long-sleeved black tee out of his backpack, “And the tomato sauce was red – did you taste the _red_ on top of the tomato sauce?” It’s mostly to distract his friend from the bruises on his arms, because all ten of them are even more vivid against Tweek’s pale skin now than they were yesterday.  
“ _No!_ It’s more like, the _idea_ of a taste, okay?” Clyde holds up his black T-shirt with the white NIKE logo on it, and frowns for a second before he turns it inside-out. “So the idea-taste comes before the actual taste. And _tomato-sauce is orange,_ anyway – orange tastes _completely_ different from red!”  
“If I was Token,” Tweek tells him, pulling the shirt down over his scrawny chest, “This is where I’d start singing “A Whole New World”. Just… keep that in mind, okay?”  
“And if I was Eric Cartman, I’d shove that paint-brush up your… somewhere,” Clyde quickly amends, blushing when he realizes that of course Mrs Tucker is listening to them. She’s been setting up a laptop on the folding table in one corner; a pristine old Dell perched on top of a cooling tray.  
“Up my nose,” Tweek asks, batting his eyelashes as innocently as he can. “And then you’d rip my whole septum off? And I’d just have one really big nostril?”  
“Eww, gross!” 

As soon as they’ve finished tidying all the paint brushes away, Clyde drives off with Mrs Tucker to pick Craig up – and sign him out, of course. Craig’s grandma gives Tweek a second parking permit for Token’s car – “Copy off his whole license plate into _this_ box, Sir Lancelot!” – and a big, heavy set of keys to let everybody in. So Tweek decides to lock up the studio for now and follow them outside; he knows himself too well. Left on his own for long enough, he’ll get so bored in there that he might start pacing over the wet paint on the floor, or do something just as stupid that he can’t even _think_ of yet.  
A message from Dad ticks in on the family thread, just after Tweek’s seen the Rabbit off and sat down on the concrete steps leading up to the studio. It reads, _How are you feeling? Aggressive, sad, sick…?_ Followed by five of those emojis with the really wide smile. Tweek can’t help but laugh, even as he shakes his head. When he told his parents he’s decided to come off the meds, they’d been so happy and relieved. Growing up, they never gave him so much as an Aspirin for a headache; instead he had to drink lots of water while Mom rubbed tiger balm into his temples. Over the years, they’ve gradually relaxed on stuff like that. They keep that bottle of Advill in the bathroom now, and when they came to visit him in the hospital, there wasn’t a single instance where either of them said they didn’t want him on meds. Not even when he was on that insane Klonopin stuff that was so strong, he had to vomit while Mom and Dad were _right there._ But when he’d told them about his decision, Dad had hugged him and literally lifted him off the floor; and they’d both promised to help make the transition back to a Xanax-free life as painless as they could.  
_I’m fine, it’s just a smaller dose today,_ Tweek writes back, and scrolls through the emoji menu for the one that’s rolling its eyes.  
Business must be slow, because Dad replies almost immediately; _Just so you know, I brought the air mattress to Tweak Bros. In case you get withdrawals while working. It’ll be like that time you had pneumonia!_ Three thumbs-up emojis follow this upbeat message, and Tweek groans out loud.  
_It’s not like I’m coming off HEROIN,_ he writes back, _JESUS DAD!!_  
Suddenly, someone else is typing – it’s a number Tweek doesn’t recognize, and for a second he wonders if Mom lost her phone again, or had to get a new sim card. He only realizes it’s Mr Donovan – of course, Dad did mention adding him to the family thread – when the message is posted. It reads, _Fyi, if Tweek murders you both in a narcotic rage, I promise to adopt him_.  
_Thx. Good to know,_ Dad replies, with another three thumbs-ups.  
As their conversation turns to Mr Donovan renting a storage unit for his overstock, Tweek shakes his head and puts his phone away. It strikes him that he used to go around feeling sorry for himself because he didn’t have any friends, aside from _maybe_ Craig… But all that time, his parents were in the same boat. But then they got to know Mr Donovan, and through him, all the _other_ parents, and now Mom even has _female_ friends – as far as Tweek knows, that’s _never_ happened before. Other women tend to act super wary around Mom for some reason; like they’re all scared she’ll run off with their husbands or whatever. He’s seen how excited she gets, every time Mrs Black or Mrs Valmer calls her, and it’s just the cutest thing.  
Tweek jumps to his feet – he’s too excited to sit still, so he does a quick walk around the block. This area looks like it used to be rough, but a few of the buildings here have been given a facelift and a new coat of paint. There’s a vintage store crammed full of wide-skirted 1950’s dresses and brick-a-brack, another store that only sells handmade hats, and an actual vegetarian café called Food For Thought. It hasn’t opened yet; but Tweek peers inside one of the windows, and it looks _so_ cozy in there. Lots of mis-matched furniture and potted plants. Maybe he can persuade Craig and the others to try this place out, when they start to get hungry?  
His phone suddenly buzzes in his pocket again – this time, it’s a message that’s been _sent_ from Jimmy’s phone, but reads: _Tweek, this is GOD. Answer your phone, or I shall SMITE THEE_. And he’s somehow got _three_ missed calls – shit, when did he switch it to silent? Tweek calls Jimmy before he starts walking back towards the studio – just in case he and Token are already waiting outside, tapping their feet and scowling.  
“ _Finally,_ ” Jimmy says, as soon as he’s taken the call. He sounds more amused than annoyed, though. Tweek’s just rounded the corner, but there’s no Prius there. “Is that a c-common thing, for p-p-people with ADHD? To forget that ph-phones exist?”  
“ _You_ shut up,” Tweek tells him, but it’s hard to sound all stern and offended when you’re laughing.  
“Token just wants me to t-tell you, we’re running late. Traffic,” Jimmy says, and Tweek can just about hear the eye-roll in his voice.  
“Oh, that’s no problem,” Tweek begins, just as the Rabbit rounds the corner – and then the rest of that sentence dies in his throat. Because he’s just seen four people in the car, not three, and the sunlight’s reflecting off blonde hair in the back seat – Mike came along?! Wasn’t he completely _against_ being in any skeleton pictures? And how the _hell_ are they supposed to get him up those stairs, without Token here to help Clyde lift him? Jimmy’s saying something else, but he might as well be speaking Punjabi, or Urdu. “I gotta go,” Tweek says, and cuts the call. Shit!  
“No Token, eh,” is the first thing Clyde says, as he pops the door on the driver’s side open. Distractedly, the way he always seems to notice superfluous details in situations when he’s just on the verge of freaking out, Tweek spots the parking permit still in the Rabbit’s front window. Looks like Clyde never bothered removing it. “He’s only running late, right? It’s not like his mom found out?”  
A nervous laugh claws its way out of Tweek’s mouth. “Just traffic,” he says, disgusted by how squeaky his own voice is.  
Craig is carefully climbing out of the car now, from the seat behind Clyde’s. Poor Craig, he must’ve been sitting with his knees under his chin! Tweek runs over to him, slips under his left arm to hug him as hard as he dares.  
“Hey babe,” Craig whispers, rubbing his nose against the top of Tweek’s head.  
“Hey yourself,” Tweek fires back, before he draws a deep breath and just gets a good nosefull – of the unfamiliar laundry detergent mixed with one of those manly deodorants – Axe or Lynx or something like that – and underneath those, the smell that is uniquely Craig. “They let you out without a wheelchair,” he asks, just to say something, really. Tweek can feel Craig’s warm breath on his scalp, parting each individual hair on his head, and it’s… pretty distracting, if he’s being honest. Craig’s jacket’s hanging open, and he’s wearing a black V-neck T-shirt that clearly exposes the tracheotomy scar on his neck. Tweek wants to stretch his neck out and kiss that teardrop-shaped scar, but he also doesn’t want to be inconsiderate, no matter how hard Mike insists he doesn’t mind. Besides, they have the whole day together, so they can probably find a moment to sneak off and make out a little.  
“Oh, it’s in the… _you_ know,” Craig says, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. “Trunk?”  
“Trunk,” Tweek agrees, grabbing Craig’s hand and pulling into the curve of his own throat for just a second, holding it in place with his chin.  
“I cut a deal with Grandma,” Craig goes on, bending down further so he can rest his forehead against Tweek’s. “It can stay in there if I’m careful.”  
“Hey,” Clyde drawls, “If you two can stop being in love for about _five_ minutes, so Tweek can come give me a hand?”  
Tweek turns around, to see that Clyde’s already lifted what must be Mike’s wheelchair out of the trunk, and set it up like a pro. Now he’s pushing it around the other side of the car, where Mike’s swinging his legs out, one at a time. His feet slap against the ground in their white, shiny sneakers.  
“This look okay to you,” Clyde’s asking casually, while Mike’s reaching past him, saying something about putting the brakes on. As Tweek runs around the car to join them – but _how_ are they going to get Mike inside, _how?!_ – he sees one of the skeleton bags shoved as deep into the trunk as it can go, with a folded-up wheelchair balanced against it. The second gym bag’s in the back seat, partially on the floor, partially up on the middle seat.  
“Keys, Sir Lancelot.” Mrs Tucker is holding one hand out, and there’s a small smile tugging at her lips, even though she’s doing her best to look all stern. “So I can open the door for you boys?”  
“Oh, uh, right,” Tweek says, “Keys, right!” He fumbles so badly when he’s pulling the keys out of his pocket that they end up on the street.  
“Tweek’s plenty strong,” Clyde is saying, spreading his arms out wide, because Mike seems understandably dubious about the idea of Tweek lifting him inside. “He’s always carrying sacks of coffee beans at his parents’ shop, and he fought this crazy guy with a knife, and won!”  
Tweek groans out loud. “Dude, it wasn’t _like_ that…”  
“We were in a super epic fight together, actually,” Clyde goes on, while Mike, now safely transferred into his wheelchair, is moving away from the car.  
“ _You_ fought _Tweek,_ ” Mike asks, jerking his head up in horrified surprise.  
“No,” Clyde laughs, “We fought together! Back-to-back, like _bros,_ you know!” He raises his fist, as if to illustrate this point. “Like, like Colossus and Wolverine!”  
“What,” Tweek yelps. “Were you gonna _throw_ me at Cartman, before Mr Adler showed up?”  
“No, but that is a _great_ idea,” Clyde says, as his arm lands around Tweek’s shoulder. “I’ll save it for next time. Anyway, dude,” he turns to Mike, with a wide, guile-less grin, “You okay with us getting you up those stairs?”  
Mike eyes Tweek up uncertainly, and it’s not like Tweek is offended, he’s _seen_ himself after all – the guy’s got every right to be worried. “If you’re _sure_ you don’t mind? Otherwise I can just sort of… climb up backwards on my butt,” Mike adds, as a blush spreads over his handsome face.  
“It’ll be _fiiine,_ ” Tweek hears himself say. Wait, what? He _can_ do this, right? He’s picked up Mom lots of times, but Mom probably weighs a lot less than Mike, and then there’s the weight of the wheelchair, too…  
“I can help,” Craig says, even though he’s still got one hand on the car as he walks around it.  
“ _You_ can sit your ass down,” Tweek snaps, pointing right at him.  
Craig’s mouth slips open, and first Clyde laughs – loud and booming, then Mike – much more quietly, holding his hand in front of his face. “You heard him,” Clyde snorts, “Back in the car, Craig. Okay guys – let’s do this, all right?”  
Turns out Clyde got a crash course in lifting people when he picked Craig and Mike up just now, so it all seems to be really fresh in his mind. There are two detachable metal tubes at the bottom of the wheelchair that Clyde pulls off, shoving one into each of his back pockets, before Mike backs his wheelchair up against the bottom step of the staircase. “I’ll lift from the back,” Clyde says, squatting with one leg on the third step. “That’s the heaviest position. Mike, can you show Tweek where to hold?”  
“Could you grab the frame here,” Mike asks, tapping the part of the wheelchair’s framework that holds his legs up. “Don’t hold the footrest,” he adds, while his cheeks turn redder and redder. He’s probably embarrassed that a little pipsqueak like Tweek has to help him. “It could come off.”  
“Okay,” Tweek says, and draws a deep breath before he grabs onto the frame. So what if he isn’t the strongest, this isn’t something he can afford to screw up.  
“Ready,” Clyde asks, as Mike tips the wheelchair backwards.  
Tweek chokes his fear down. “Ready,” he says, and then they’re doing it. And it isn’t nearly as heavy as he’d feared – Clyde’s obviously shouldering most of the weight, and he makes them take a break for every one of the five concrete steps, so he can shift his own leg up. Tweek’s arms don’t even hurt by the time they’re done, and Mike is up there, though they do shake something fierce.  
“Thanks,” Mike says, looking down at his feet and blushing like crazy, while Clyde is putting those metal things – they’re called anti-tippers, apparently – back into place.  
“My pleasure,” Tweek tells him, and is surprised to realize that he actually means it. 

It’s twelve thirty by the time Token and the others arrive; and Tweek’s just put the finishing touches on the male skeleton. The timing is perfect; since Craig has been propping it up against his chest while Tweek worked on attaching the leg sticks to the big thigh bones, he quickly picks up the arm sticks and makes the skeleton do a sarcastic slow-clap as their friends stumble inside.  
Bebe is so startled she bursts out laughing, before she runs over and squats down next to Craig. He clearly hadn’t been expecting the hug, so it takes him a second to get over the shock, before he awkwardly pats her back. “I’ve known you since kindergarten, you asshole,” Bebe scolds him fondly, “Why _wouldn’t_ I be happy that you’re alive?”  
“Thanks, I guess,” Craig drawls, and gives her a lop-sided grin.  
Introductions are made over lunch, because _of course_ Jimmy’s mom has filled up the entire trunk of the Prius with sandwiches and sliced-up banana bread. There are paper plates, too, and three of those two-litre bottles of ginger ale that Token’s dad likes to hoard. No coffee though, and nothing to even make coffee with – though for once, Tweek actually doesn’t mind. His morning pill was cut in half with a kitchen knife, and he takes the second half now, but already it’s like he’s got so much _more_ energy than before.  
A seemingly harmless turn of the conversation – Token mentioning how his mom is trying to force him to go to church tomorrow – suddenly becomes something nobody had bargained for. “I told her,” Token’s saying, pointing with a battered fish-stick that’s slipped out from between the bread of his sandwich, “I don’t believe in God, Mom, I’m an atheist! And the Mom turns around as tells me _she_ doesn’t believe in atheists.”  
Everybody but Mike has a good laugh at that, especially Mrs Tucker, who’s sitting by the desk, on the only chair in the room. “I told my husband,” she says, “When I got pregnant with Craig’s father, I said,” she holds up one finger, “ _One,_ this will be the first and last kid we have, and _two,_ ” up comes a second finger, “If you want me to raise it to believe in any of that God nonsense, I’m throwing myself down the stairs right now!”  
Tweek, who’s unlucky enough to have his mouth full, laughs until he chokes. Craig has to slap his back to dislodge whatever it was got stuck there. In the silence that follows, Mike suddenly says, “It’s not like _I_ ever believed in God.” There’s something about his tone that makes Tweek’s heart clench in his chest.  
“You’re in good c-company then,” Jimmy begins, clearly wanting to divert whatever dangerous topic is about to bob up to the surface. “In fact, if we had a d-death match in here now, of atheists versus religious people, we’d be pretty evenly m-matched!” He starts counting names off on his fingers, desperately cheerful, “We’d have you, and Craig and Mrs Tucker, T-Token…”  
“I always just pretended I believed it,” Mike goes on, as if Jimmy hadn’t spoken at all. “Even all the stuff that made no sense, like how whoever is in _charge_ of the Mormon church has some kind of direct hotline to God, and can ask him about, I dunno, if Mormons should be allowed to play _baseball._ It’s completely _stupid,_ but I just went along with it, until…” Mike sucks a deep breath in through his nose, and he sounds so desperately unhappy that Tweek snuggles up closer under Craig’s arm, worrying at his bottom lip with his teeth. “Everyone back home just thinks I’m doubting God because of the _accident,_ ” Mike goes on, his voice thick with scorn. “Back at the hospital, they literally had people lining up out the _door_ to come talk to me about how God’s only _testing_ me and blah blah… Like everyone from our next-door neighbours to the guy who runs the _petrol_ station, and of _course_ the bishop from the missionary training centre showed up. Trying to convince me I could _continue_ on my mission after I “got better”, as he put it, and I was like, “Excuse me, sir? I’ve had my spinal cord severed, that’s not something you “get better” from!”  
“Damn,” Token says, spreading his slim hands out, “That’s… I don’t even know what to say, man. People are _stupid_.”  
All around their little circle, people murmur their assent and nod. Tweek literally finds himself speechless though, because aren’t adults supposed to be smarter than that? Aren’t they supposed to know when someone should be left alone, to lick their wounds and recover as much as they _can?_  
“At least there’s a funny side,” Mike says, with the world’s most forced smile, “Because did I mention they’d paired me up with a human garden gnome? I mean, Homer’s the _nicest_ guy, but were they seriously expecting this child-sized guy to haul me up the stairs to a house, ring the doorbell, get yelled at, haul me back down, then go to the _next_ house and do that all _over_ again? Homer’s smaller than Tweek! Uh, no offense,” Mike adds, like he’s suddenly remembered Tweek is sitting right there, tucked under Craig’s arm.  
“None taken,” Tweek says automatically. When his brain has caught up with his mouth, he adds, “And I hope you told that guy where to _stick_ his mission.”  
Mike shrugs, suddenly all embarrassed again. “Well, yeah. That’s why my family’s kinda… not speaking to me anymore.”  
That sentence hangs over them all like a cloud, and Tweek realizes that he’s actually never _seen_ anybody visit Mike, ever. Damn.  
“That’s why you’re here, right,” Craig says, stone-faced and cryptic, and Mike only nods.  
“Well!” Bebe stands up, shaking Clyde’s arm off her shoulders and brushing her jeans down, “If a tiny Mormon ever rings our doorbell, I promise I’ll be nice to him.” There’s something so weirdly funny about the words “tiny Mormon” that Tweek can’t help but snicker, and even Mike has to smile.  
“Right,” Craig says, “Let’s get to work.” 

Craig sets each shot up so meticulously; it’s like the pictures already exist inside his head, and he’s just got to get through the inconvenience of having to pose people… It’s funny, watching him boss everyone around. Tweek can totally see what Craig must’ve been like on the playground, in the sandbox. Always in charge.  
Bebe’s brough makeup, a big silver box of it, to do what she calls contouring – apparently at Craig’s request, too! “For black and white, you need that,” Craig explains, when Token and Jimmy both start to balk at the idea. “Or stuff like these,” he taps his own lips, “Won’t even show up!” It figures that he’ll try to avoid using words he might screw up – Tweek can see how it’d slow everything down, if everyone suddenly had to guess what Craig was trying to say. And the last thing he’d want is to embarrass Craig now, when he’s in his element, in charge of the whole thing. So Tweek decides not to bring it up.  
“Enter my secret weapon,” Bebe says, holding a single lipstick up like it’s Excalibur. “What,” she looks almost offended at how unimpressed all the boys seem. “This lipstick was developed to suit literally _every_ skin tone. _And_ I’ll disinfect it for every person I put it on,” she adds, which prompts a very quiet, and not exactly heartfelt “Yay,” from Token.  
Except for Mike, whose job it is to hold that silver reflector thing up at whatever height Craig demands, sometimes even above his head, everyone goes barefoot. Both because it’s part of Craig’s “vision” for these pictures, and because it’s just easier to keep the white surfaces clean that way. He shoots Token and Nicole together first, after Nicole has dug out her own, more modest makeup pouch and contoured Token’s face. Nicole is visibly nervous; she spent most of lunch joking about wanting to get it over with. Throughout the whole shoot, she keeps grabbing for Token’s hand, like she doesn’t even realize she’s doing it.  
“Stop that,” Token says, laughing a little as he bats her hand away for the fifth or sixth time. “You’ll ruin the pictures.”  
“No, wait,” Craig tells them, lowering the camera, “Let her do it. It’s more real that way.” Whatever he means by that, Nicole looks so relieved that Tweek feels even guiltier than he was already feeling. It’s like _he’s_ the one terrorizing her, after all, since he’s controlling the skeleton she has to pose with.  
When their part of the shoot is done, Nicole goes and sits down over by the door, arms wrapped around her knees. And even though she insists she’s okay, Bebe goes over and pulls her to her feet, saying, “We’re gonna get some air. Just text me when you need me, all right?” Nicole doesn’t seem to have the energy to argue, so the two girls leave, arm in arm.  
“Well,” Token says, running a hand through his hair, “Don’t I feel like an asshole now. I’m the one that talked her into this,” he adds, and for a second it looks like he’s going to follow the girls outside. But Craig wants to take some more pictures of just Token, so in the end, he stays.  
Tweek manipulates the female skeleton, and Clyde the male one – they had enough time to practice, in between working out where they should tape the wood, to make the movements more or less seamless. One stick for each arm and leg, and one for the torso, fastened against the back of the spinal column. For trickier shots, they’ll cooperate on one skeleton – to get everything right in the photo series Craig takes of Jimmy, for instance, Tweek ends up crouched on the floor, manipulating the male skeleton’s arms, while Clyde just holds it in place and occasionally moves one leg.  
“If my mom could see me now,” Clyde suddenly giggles, “Damn, she’d be so pissed!”  
Craig wants Clyde to pose with a skeleton too, of course. As soon as he's changed into a white T-shirt, Clyde's good to go. Clyde was one of the first people Bebe put through her makeup routine, while he sat there like a large, patient dog. Craig eventually persuades him to go shirtless, and flex his arms, while Token clumsily moves the male skeleton around in front of him, and Tweek brings the female skeleton’s arms up and around; to stroke Clyde’s chest from behind.  
“This’ll either be incredibly sexy,” Craig mutters, “Or incredibly creepy.” He’s lying almost flat on the floor, photographing upwards with his grandmother’s digital SLR. All the while, Mrs Tucker is watching him, making the occasional comment or suggestion, but mostly leaving every decision up to Craig.  
Bebe and Nicole come back inside before there’s any need to call them, and Bebe quickly gets ready; shimmying out of her sweater and pulling the red scarf out of her hair. She’s already done her own makeup, of course, but she does apply another coat of that multi-ethnic lipstick. And when she just grabs Clyde’s hand to press against the back of her lips, instead of using a tissue, all Clyde does is laugh. Tweek sees Mrs Tucker exchange a look with Mike – these kids, eh? – before she says, “Sir Lancelot did that too, you know,” and jabs her thumb in Tweek’s direction. WHAT?! Tweek feels his cheek instantly heat up, and has to duck his face away. But when he looks at Craig, all his boyfriend does is smirk and shrug.  
Then it’s Tweek’s turn again, and he’s hoisting the female skeleton up with arms that are starting to get tired. Clyde, on break for now, has carefully put his skeleton down on the unpainted side of the floor, folding the sticks underneath the bones. He’s squatting next to Jimmy, who’s now claimed the chair for a while, and of course _Clyde_ doesn’t look tired at all. He’s just cheerfully scrubbing the makeup off his face, with wet-wipes from that blue packet Bebe’s been passing around.  
“You mind facing it dead on,” Craig’s asking Bebe, in that tone he uses when he’s not _really_ asking.  
“Sure,” Bebe replies brightly, and shifts her footing a bit so Craig can photograph both her and the skeleton in side profile. And because he’s looking right at her through the openings between the bones, Tweek can see it – the exact moment understanding begins to dawn on Bebe’s face. The way her smile slowly fades, and her eyes open wider. She really _is_ beautiful, Tweek realizes, although he’s never thought of girls this way before. Or maybe it’s that her personality’s so big, it’s stopped him from really looking at her closely? But Bebe’s perfectly proportioned pale face is like that of a Greek statue, lit up from inside by faint blue veins, just like there are veins in marble. Far away, he can hear the incessant clicking of Craig’s borrowed camera, intent on capturing every second.  
“Hey, Token,” Craig suddenly says, pulling Tweek out of his thoughts as he squats down on the floor in front of Bebe and him, “Can you come help me with something?  
“Sure, dude!” Token hurries over, and Craig taps the floor with his palm.  
“Stand _right_ there, okay?”  
“Okay…” Token looks confused at first, then bursts out laughing when Craig just leans back against his left leg, and grunts, “Perfect,” before he starts shooting again. It’s hard to keep a straight face, with Craig treating Token like furniture; even Nicole starts to giggle.  
“Mike, up,” Craig says, and Mike obediently raises the board above his head. “Tweek, hold the hand out flat. Okay, great. Bebe, put yours against it? Perfect, stay like that...”  
It almost turns into a sort of dance, in the end, between Bebe and the skeleton. She juts her chin up, grins at Tweek while she copies his movements, like she’s taken that understanding she came to and worked it out already in her head. Like she’s saying, _Sure, I know I’m going to die,_ and showing them all she intends to do some serious living before that day comes. _Of course_ Clyde would love a girl like this from top to toe, Tweek thinks, and it’s got nothing to do with how pretty she is – to Clyde, that’s probably just a really nice side benefit.  
“Holy shit, Bebe,” Craig finally says, and when Tweek looks up, he’s surprised to notice that Craig’s stood up again – when did he do that? Craig lowers his camera, shaking his head like Bebe’s gone and bested him somehow.  
“Was it all right,” Bebe asks, and suddenly she sounds uncertain, like the teenage girl she is.  
“Better than all right,” Craig tells her, in his usual flat tone. “Can you sort out Tweek now,” he asks, as he walks over to the table to put the camera down.  
Bebe opens her mouth to reply, but what comes out is a horrified gasp as Craig’s weaker leg suddenly buckles. But Token’s been hovering behind him ever since his footstool duties ended, and scoops one long arm around Craig’s waist, hauling him back to his feet. It’s done so quickly and smoothly, you could almost forget you even saw it happen – except that Craig is blushing and glowering, as he steadiest himself with one hand on Token’s shoulder. “Thanks,” he mutters, and Token just smiles and shrugs in response.  
“And _that’s_ our cue to take a break,” Mrs Tucker says firmly, as she slips her cardigan off and wads it into a ball. “Craig – don’t argue! You’re having a lie-down,” she points her finger meaningfully at her grandson, who reluctantly closes his mouth, “And Sir Lancelot can stay to keep an eye on you. Now, who’s coming with me to get some coffee?”  
In the end, the only one who stays behind with them is Mike, for obvious reasons. Craig dutifully stays on the floor, with his grandma’s cardigan under his head like a pillow, until they can hear the heavy front door slam shut. Then he pushes himself up in a sitting position. “I’m not even _tired,_ ” he growls, so embarrassed that he’s almost angry. “Hey Mike – want to do _yours_ now?”  
“I, I thought you didn’t want to be in any photos,” Tweek says, as he realizes what Craig is talking about.  
“Changed my mind,” Mike says, not quite meeting Tweek’s eyes. “Craig showed me that picture _you_ took, and…” he shrugs. “I thought; this is how I can tell my parents what I… need to tell them.”  
“Okay.” Tweek doesn’t really get it, but if Mike actually wants to do this… “You want the male or female skeleton?” He put the female one down, along the wall, where Clyde put the male one, so he could sit with Craig. The male one doesn’t weigh _that_ much more, so Tweek figures he’ll be all right.  
“Male,” Craig says firmly, and holds his hand out for Tweek to pull him up.  
“I’m sorry if I leave any marks,” Mike says, as he wheels himself into the middle of the white space. There are already footprints here, but only faint grey ones that everyone else has left behind, and little grey dots from Jimmy’s crutches.  
“Stop apologizing for being alive,” Craig snaps, as he picks his camera back up.  
Tweek, who’s been raising the male skeleton to its feet, turns his head around sharply. “Craig!”  
But Mike only shrugs and smiles. “It’s fine,” he says. “Craig’s probably right.”  
“I’m always right,” Craig drawls, as he adjusts something on the camera. “I’ll shoot these in colour, and turn them black and white later on _that,_ ” he jerks his head at the laptop, “So there’s no need to doll you up.”  
“Thank goodness,” Mike says, with such exaggerated relief that Tweek can’t help but grin back at him.  
The poses they go for end up being very simple. At first, Mike just sits there, hands resting on his knees, as Tweek reaches the male skeleton’s left arm towards him. Uses it to beckon him closer, only Mike stays where he is. They leave some air between them at first, before Craig tells him to move closer. To rest that hand on Mike’s head, stroke his cheek with it. And finally, Craig gets Tweek to move back again, before he says, “Now reach out, both of you. So you almost touch.”  
It makes Tweek’s throat swell up something fierce, and he’s not even sure why, but he still does it. Leaves just the smallest bit of air between the skeleton’s fingertips and Mike's, as the older boy stretches his arm out as far as it will go. And Craig’s face behind the camera is deadly serious, as he kneels on one leg to get the perfect shot.  
Afterwards, they cover their tracks like guilty children, putting the male skeleton back _exactly_ the way Clyde left it. Craig even lies back down, though he agrees to rest his head on Tweek’s leg this time, so Tweek can stroke his hair. He needs to, for some reason he can’t even put a name to. Just so he can calm himself down before the others get back in.  
“So why _does_ Mrs Tucker call you Sir Lancelot,” Mike asks, coming closer but not too close. Like he doesn’t want to intrude.  
“Because he saved my ass,” Craig answers for Tweek, his eyes almost slipping completely closed as he grins wolfishly up at him. His breathing’s slowing down, like this is just too cosy for him to resist falling asleep. And a second later, there it is – a quiet, almost imperceptible snore.  
Tweek thinks back on all those times he _wanted_ to touch Craig, but _couldn’t_ – from being in class and dying to pull on Craig’s hair, to that time on Halloween when Craig got upset. When Tweek put his arms around him anyway, only of course he’d been hugging thin air. But now, he’s free to run his fingertips in circles on Craig’s scalp, to part that black hair like grass, to hold him as tight as he can. Just for a second, Tweek’s heart almost explodes from happiness.  
“He’s really worn himself out, huh,” Mike says, smiling as he rolls his eyes at the ceiling. It’s like watching Craig talk about Tricia, or Kevin talk about Esther, Tweek thinks, as he grins up at Mike and nods. 

After Mrs Tucker returns with the rest of the “horde”, as she calls them; and a much appreciated unsweetened cappuccino with an extra shot for Tweek, they all finish off the rest of the banana loaf while Bebe puts makeup on Tweek’s face. She leaves the lipstick for last, of course, since it’ll only come off while he’s eating or drinking. It’s weirdly nice, he decides, as the brushes fly over his face. This must be what dogs feel like, at the grooming parlour. He says as much to Bebe, who laughs and tells him to never change, or else.  
They get through the last set of photos in what feels like no time at all; and then it’s time to “rig down”, as Mrs Tucker puts it. Tweek and Token spread the female skeleton out on the table, and Mike gets the task of unpicking all the tape, while Jimmy sits on the floor and does the same for the male one. Nicole runs around with a black garbage sack, picking up empty coffee cups, napkins and food wrappers, and Mrs Tucker plugs the camera into her laptop with a USB cable to transfer all of Craig’s photos. She’s even brought an external hard drive along, so Craig can have his own copies straightaway. Tweek would never have guessed someone her age even knew external hard drives _exist,_ but Mrs Tucker is a total pro at this stuff. By the time they’re all done, Clyde’s carried the paint and everything else that can be carried outside. He and Token divvy it up so there’s one skeleton and one wheelchair per car; and all that’s left is to get Mike back outside. “You’ll ride back with me, right,” Clyde’s saying, as he pulls those metal things off the back of the wheelchair and shoves them down his pockets again. “I mean, you must be pretty sick of Craig’s face by now.”  
Tweek, who’s gripping the wheelchair frame on the left side, just _has_ to look over his shoulder. And sure enough, Craig’s leaning against the Prius and flipping Clyde off.  
“Can’t turn down an invitation like that, can I,” Mike drawls, as he tips the wheels back.  
Next to Tweek, Token tenses up – he’s gripping the right-hand side of the frame, and Tweek is _so_ happy that the two of them can cooperate on this. Because scary as it was to get Mike _up_ the stairs; getting him down seems even more dangerous. With three of them lifting, it’s surprisingly easy, and a lot less awkward even though the others are all watching.  
“Did Mrs Tucker sign you out, too,” Tweek asks casually – see; he can even strike up a conversation while he’s doing this now! – as they finally put Mike down on the sidewalk.  
Mike frowns with confusion. “No, I signed myself out,” he says, and then his eyes suddenly widen as he gets what Tweek meant. “Tweek,” Mike sounds almost offended now, “I’m twenty-one!”  
Tweek feels his jaw drop. “No way,” he hears himself say, and when he looks over at Token, Token looks equally crestfallen.  
“I, I guess it’s all that clean Mormon living,” Token says, blinking and rubbing the back of his neck. “I mean, uh… Sorry you had to hang out with a bunch of babies all day?”  
The sound of crazy laughter makes them both spin around. “I _told_ you they’d never guess,” Craig shouts from over by the Prius, literally hanging off the doorframe, “I told you!” 

The drive back to the rehab center goes by all too fast. In the Prius, Jimmy rides shotgun, while Tweek gets the middle seat, squeezed in between Nicole and Craig. They hold hands on the whole ride, and when they pull up by the kerb, Craig suddenly grabs Tweek’s face between his hands, and they kiss for like, almost a whole _minute._ It’s not enough, it can _never_ be enough, but it will have to do until Thursday.  
The rehab center has a ramp running alongside and around the regular staircase, so it’s not like Mike needs to be carried inside here – they must’ve just taken him up and down the front steps so Clyde could learn how to do it. Still, Tweek tags along inside, one arm tucked around Craig’s waist, while Clyde follows behind them carrying that wheelchair Craig never wound up using.  
While Mrs Tucker’s signing the paperwork and Craig’s chatting to Clyde, Tweek walks up to Mike where he’s waiting for the elevator.  
“Hey,” he says, because on the ride back here, it gradually dawned on him just what kind of message Mike wants to send to his family. “Dude, can I… ask you something?”  
Mike turns the wheelchair around and grins up at him. “Sure,” he says, friendly as always, not suspecting a thing. Tweek squats down next to him.  
“Don’t kill yourself,” he says, and watches that grin slide right off Mike’s face. “Please?”  
“Ah,” Mike says, and drops his gaze.  
“It’s just, it’s just that I almost did it, and it was the biggest mistake of my _life,_ and if Craig hadn’t been there,” Tweek babbles, keeping his voice as quiet as he can. “So even though you’re like, an adult and I’m just some brat, and I can’t _possibly_ know how you feel, if you ever want to call me and talk about it, then…” Patting his pockets, he pulls out a blue Bic with the end all chewed up – all of Tweek’s pends end up like this, sooner or later – and waves it under Mike’s nose. “Then I’d really appreciate it, okay?!” While Mike can still only blink at him, Tweek grabs his hand, and shakily writes his phone number up the other boy’s arm.  
“Thanks,” Mike says then, and pulls his arm free to rest it on Tweek’s shoulder for a second. “I… I’ll do that. Thank you, Tweek.”  
“Do, ah, do Mormons hug,” Tweek asks him timidly, as he gets to his feet – and Mike actually laughs.  
“Mormons _and_ ex-Mormons,” he says, and gives Tweek the warmest hug _ever._


	35. Reset the world

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GUYS! We have more fan art, again from the hella talented sweet_eijiro - thank you so much! It's beautiful! I live for ripped-jeans Tweek from now on and until forever. You can find it here:  
> https://www.instagram.com/p/B2SbUbXAK00/
> 
> Also, thank you so much for over 6K hits! That's crazy awesome! 
> 
> Now, as for Tweek's shiny new haircut? Here's a picture of an Andorian, which is what he's supposed to cosplay:  
> https://redshirtsalwaysdie.com/2016/08/08/andorians-returning-star-trek/  
> But when it's been styled "properly", I picture him looking a little bit like a cross between a really soft 70's TV detective, and Prince Valiant...

“Jimmy,” Tweek says firmly, while Clyde’s easing the Rabbit into a corner parking spot outside the Roadhouse, “We need to stop of somewhere and get your mom some flowers.”  
“Huh?” Jimmy, who’s been picking his crutches up off the floor, twists his neck to stare at Tweek. This is clearly the last thing he expected to hear. “Why?”  
“Because she always cooks for us,” Tweek says, astonished that his friend would take something like this for granted. “And her cooking’s amazing!”  
“Trader Joe’s,” Clyde suggests, just before he kills the engine. “Tweek’s right, you know,” he adds, as he carefully pops the door open. It’s fairly obvious he took the car in nose first so Jimmy wouldn’t have to scramble out between the Rabbit and the car next to it, a gunmetal grey Opel Astra that’s literally standing on top of the yellow stripe with two wheels.  
In the seat next to Tweek’s, Bebe slips her phone into her bag; an oblong red thing that’s got handles as well as a carry-strap. “You mean the one at the mall,” she asks, as she slides her arm through the handles and climbs out, flattening herself against the side of the Astra. “Jesus, some people need to learn how to park!”  
Tweek waits until Jimmy’s made his careful way around the side of the Rabbit – he’s got to walk with one crutch on the tarmac, and the other in the flowerbed that runs alongside. Tweek’s fingers drum an impatient beat on the door handle. He’s been cooped up in this car for way too long. It wasn’t so bad while everyone was still chatting and making up stupid skeleton songs. But then, Esther had called Bebe, and they’d had to be _quiet._  
“Nicole’s probably being wined and dined as we speak,” Bebe’s saying, when Tweek can finally jump out of the Rabbit.  
“More like w-wined and _soda’d,_ ” Jimmy replies, raising an eyebrow. “W-w-we’re still underage, so…” He shrugs, and just for a second, Tweek can see how bone tired Jimmy is. How his face is all drawn. Then it’s gone, as quickly as it appeared, and Jimmy’s grinning like nothing’s amiss. “C-c-come on,” he says, nudging Tweek before he starts hobbling towards the front doors. Tweek has to run to catch up with him. He’s _seen_ Jimmy shoulder doors open before, but the doors at the Roadhouse – the eternal pit-stop of South Park residents, a big, ugly building squatting just inside the town borders – are so heavy that Tweek doesn’t even want to _think_ about leaving Jimmy to open them. Even though he’s sure Jimmy _can._  
After she’d signed Craig back in, Mrs Tucker had assured Clyde she didn’t need a ride back home. The rest of Craig’s family had been due to come see him in an hour or two, so Mrs Tucker had decided she would hang around and wait. “Even if he’s going to sleep, I’ll wait,” she’d said. Tweek, peeking out from under Craig’s arm while they hugged, had seen how her whole face had crinkled up when she smiled and gripped Clyde’s arm.  
“Well, if you’re sure,” Clyde had said, before he came over to wrap his arms around Craig and Tweek at the same time, and hug them both.  
Then Clyde and Tweek had gone back outside, to find that Token was banishing everyone but Nicole to the Rabbit because apology sushi was in order. “At least I’m lucky,” Token had been saying, “That she likes stuff that starts with an “S”? Snickers, sushi… makes it easier to remember.”  
Nicole had rolled her eyes and tried to elbow him, only Token had easily evaded her, as gracefully as Spiderman.  
That had been good, though. Tweek could see how Nicole had relaxed at the thought of just being alone with her boyfriend for a while, after the whole skeleton thing. She’d been so quiet on the ride back to the rehab facility, and Tweek should probably have made more of an effort to talk to her about it, instead of being so wrapped up in Craig.  
So Jimmy had made a crack about the one percent, and Token had made Clyde take the second skeleton as well, now that Mike _and_ his wheelchair were safely inside. “You know,” Token had drawled, “Just in case we get pulled over for _existing,_ and the cops find a human skeleton in the trunk.”  
“Fair enough,” Clyde had said, hoisting the sports bag on his shoulder like it didn’t weigh at thing, while Bebe and Nicole had hugged each-other goodbye.  
The remaining four of them had been on the freeway for maybe five minutes when Clyde said, “Well, we worked hard too,” in such a petulant tone that it was impossible not to laugh, and then Jimmy had suggested Roadhouse burgers, and everybody had cheered. Tweek’s been there before with his parents, and they’ve got plenty of things there he can eat, too – including fries with melted cheese on top, and a halloumi burger that’s actually really good.  
“Esther was asking if we could bring Tweek and Jimmy over,” Bebe’s saying, walking hand in hand with Clyde up towards the big double doors, “For a makeup test.” Tweek who’s holding one of them open for Jimmy – it’s so heavy – just barely catches Clyde’s quiet “Not Jimmy.” Clyde probably caught it too, that flash of exhaustion, before Jimmy managed to hide it.  
“Mm, I get it,” Bebe replies as they slip past Tweek, Clyde reaching out his free hand to take some of the weight of that door. So Tweek follows the two of them inside, only to barrel straight into Clyde’s back. Tweek can just about see past him, and the apology he was about to splutter out dies in his throat when he sees who’s already in there. Wendy Testaburger and Kyle Broflofski are sitting on either side of Stan Marsh, each with an empty plate in front of them. They’ve somehow wound up on the one and only table that’s directly opposite the entrance; the three of them taking up a table than could comfortably seat six, eight in a pinch. Clyde and Marsh seem to have some serious eye-contact going on, with Clyde’s shoulders all tensed up, like he’s just moments away from running in and flipping their table over. Jimmy and Kyle are glaring at each other too – but it’s more of an “I-can’t-belive-you’re-here, oh-shit-you-saw-me,” kind of glare. Almost out of habit, Tweek scans the restaurant for Stotch, but at least that little creep is nowhere to be seen.  
“Well,” Bebe says, and her voice is just a little bit too sharp, as it cuts through the silence. “What’re you all doing out here?” She walks right up to their table, pulling Clyde after her. Bebe Stevens just danced with death, after all – dealing with these people is nothing. “You been to visit a certain someone?”  
“Yeah,” Kyle says heavily. He’s not able to meet her gaze, and Kyle Broflofski’s been known for even staring the _teachers_ down. “Look, it’s not _like_ that…”  
“Well, _I_ haven’t,” Wendy says primly, “I’m just here to…”  
Marsh picks his drink up and starts sucking on the straw, the slurping sound drowning out what his girlfriend is saying, as he keeps staring fixedly at Clyde. Tweek’s heart is beating _way_ faster than normal. Is Marsh _trying_ to start a fight?!  
“W-what _is_ it like then,” Jimmy asks Kyle, as if Wendy hadn’t spoken at all. As if it’s the most natural thing in the world, he slides into the booth next to Kyle.  
Meanwhile, Bebe’s taking the seat next to Wendy’s, forcing both Wendy and her boyfriend to shuffle up. “So, where’s Heidi,” she asks, clearly doing her best to keep things pleasant.  
“And, and where’s – ngh – your friend _Leo_ – gah,” Tweek follows up, startling himself a little with his own stammering and grunting. Of course he’s _nervous,_ those things mainly happen when he’s nervous. But does cutting his dosage down really show up this quickly in his behaviour? What if Xanax really _was_ the only think keeping him talking and acting like a semi-normal person? What’ll happen _then,_ when he’s off the pills completely? Tweek shuts his eyes for a second, breathes in through his nose. What’ll happen is; he’s going to be fine. Right?  
“Heidi’s vegan, remember,” Kyle says, frowning. “So there’s basically nothing here she can eat. And Leo’s going tomorrow. With his dad, I think? They limit how many visitors he can have,” he goes on, while Tweek nervously perches next to Jimmy, “Per day, I mean.”  
A waitress comes over with a bunch of menus under her arm, causing a bit of a break in the conversation, and Wendy also asks her for the check. When all the menus are spread out across the table; and Tweek is unsuccessfully hiding behind his, Jimmy says, “So, how’s he d-doing,” and Wendy sighs, while Kyle runs his hands through his hair. Only Stan Marsh seems unaffected, shrugging as he digs through his black wallet.  
“Full-blown psychosis,” Kyle says, with a heavy sigh, “That’s how he’s doing. He gave us this big speech about how none of us are really real? Or not as real as he is, anyway,” he adds, looking at Mash as if for confirmation. “So that’s why he’s going to, ah, “reset the world”, was it?”  
Marsh snorts, very quietly. “Yeah,” he says, shrugging. “And I was like, good luck with that, man.”  
“Basically,” Wendy folds her hands on the table, “He’s on suicide watch now. Kyle was just saying how, for most of their visit, Kenny was talking about killing himself, and…” Her gaze flickers to her boyfriend for just a second or two, like she can’t stop herself, “And asking for suggestions.”  
“I wouldn’t worry about it, Wendy,” Marsh says, and slips his arm around her. Grinning, and nudging Wendy until she’s given him a small grin in return. Just for a moment, it’s like the shadow of the old Stan Marsh, the one Tweek remembers from his childhood, has come back, to overlap with the current one. “They’ve got him locked up like a serial killer in there. It’s not like he’ll get a chance to try.”  
“Reset the world,” Clyde asks, like he doesn’t really want to know, but can’t help himself. “What does that even _mean?_ ”  
“It means he thinks he’ll be reborn.” Marsh leans back in his seat, sliding his arm off of Wendy so he can gesture with both hands – it’s almost like he’s _finally_ found a topic that’s interesting enough to pull him out of his emotionless state. That; or he really enjoys messing with Clyde. “After he kills himself, Kenny thinks he’ll be reborn _as_ himself, the same age he is now, that he’ll just… magically reappear in his old bed at home. Nobody but him will remember what happened, since we’re not as _real_ as he is,” Marsh shrugs, and actually smiles, which is positively _creepy,_ “And it’ll be like a fresh start. Sounds kind of nice, doesn’t it, when you think about it?”  
“No,” Clyde snaps, and it’s impossible to tell if he’s more horrified or offended, “It sounds insane.”  
“Doesn’t help that _someone_ was giving him helpful suggestions on how to do it,” Kyle mutters, looking down at the money he’s counting out.  
“Well, he asked!” Marsh suddenly gets all defensive, spreading his hands wide. “It’s not like he’ll ever be able to _do_ anything about it! It was just something to talk about, you know?”  
For a few moments, everyone just goes quiet. Peeking out from over the top of his menu, Tweek can’t help but feel sorry for them all. Well, not for McCormick – _never_ for him! Then, Jimmy says, “P-personally? I think he’d be m-making the w-w-world a b-better place.” Maybe it’s because he hasn’t talked for a while, that everybody turns to stare at Jimmy. “Well, _come on!_ If K-Kenny’s c-c-crazy enough that th-they have to k-keep him locked up for the r-rest of his life, he’s basically just a b-big r-r-resource-drain!” Since he’s sitting directly opposite Bebe and Wendy, it’s almost like Jimmy’s aiming his words right at the two girls. Like they’re the ones he wants to convince the most. “You think his f-family’s going to pay for his s-stay there?” Jimmy shakes his head firmly. “It’ll be the tax-payer, and that m-means _our_ p-p-parents, who’ll p-p-pay for him – and for all the n-nurses who take his t-temperature and w-w-wipe his ass!”  
Tweek feels a little ball of guilt start to form in his stomach when he realizes that he actually agrees – just a little bit. But only with the financial part – not the suicide part.  
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Kyle snaps, as he picks up the little dish the waitress brought the bill on, pressing the cash against it. “Now move, please – I’m gonna take this to the till.”  
Tweek slaps his menu down on the table, and practically jumps out of his seat in his eagerness to comply. The sooner Kyle and his friends leave, the better, in Tweek’s book. But naturally, Jimmy takes longer. Tweek doesn’t think it’s on purpose; Jimmy’s so tired, after all. But to Kyle, it probably looks deliberate; like Jimmy’s silently showing him just where he thinks Kyle can shove his little not-quite-orders. Like he’s saying, nobody tells Jimmy Valmer what to do.  
Clyde and Bebe also get up, to make space for the other two, and Bebe gives Wendy a half-hearted hug. “I guess I’ll see you in school,” she says, and she sounds a little sad. Wendy just makes a non-committal sound in reply before she leaves, hand in hand with her boyfriend.  
Tweek quickly squeezes past Jimmy to take the innermost seat – it’ll be easier for him to get in and out, probably, if he doesn’t also have to shuffle up and down the bench.  
“Okay,” Bebe says, as she scoots all the way up towards the back wall, “So. Tweek. Want to share some cheesy fries with me?”  
“Ngh! Sure!” The two of them seem to be thinking the same thing, which is “let’s pretend all of that awkward shit never happened.” As an extra diversionary tactic, he says, “Did you guys notice? They didn’t even ask about Craig once!” Which, now that Tweek stops to think about it, actually pisses him off. More than just a little bit.  
Clyde’s frowning, slipping his arm around Bebe and pulling her close. “Suicide’s not cool, dude,” he mutters, in Jimmy’s general direction. Like he really doesn’t want to start anything, but he just feels it has to be said. “And Tweek was sitting right there.”  
Jimmy sighs heavily as he sits down. “Sorry,” he says, aiming that word down at his menu.  
“I don’t – gnk – I don’t mind,” Tweek yelps; hating the idea that Jimmy should feel guilty because of _him_.  
Then Clyde taps Jimmy’s arm and grins at him, and Jimmy looks up, grins back – and that’s it. Friendship telepathy takes many forms, and Tweek can only shake his head in wonder and relief.

“When was the last time you had a haircut? Or like, _brushed_ your hair?” Esther’s obviously trying to keep the judgement out of her voice, but Tweek can tell it isn’t easy for her. She’s wearing her hair down today, pinned back from her face with a clip that’s got the Wonder Woman “W” symbol on it. Esther’s also wearing a Wonder Woman T-shirt under her cardigan, though it’s a different one from the shirt Tweek saw her in, that time she came to help clean out his house.  
“Ah,” he mutters, and chews on his bottom lip a little. “Ngh. I have… no idea?” The truth is; Tweek pulled a few bits of hair out during his first couple of days at the hospital. That’s something he hadn’t actually done since like, the fourth grade, so he’d been mortally embarrassed but also completely unable to stop. It had all started to grow back out by the time they released him, but the rest of his hair had grown quite long by then, and Tweek hadn’t been in any shape to go to the hairdresser’s. So Mom had taken the kitchen scissors and done what she could. She’d cut and sort of shaped the rest of his hair to cover those shorter patches. She’d never brushed his hair at all, though, just run her fingers through it whenever she’d found a knot.  
“All right.” Esther tilts his head to the left, then to the right, like she’s inspecting the damage. “Would you mind if _I_ cut it? I spent all of last summer working at a salon,” she adds, “So I know how to cut hair. They even offered me an apprenticeship, but I had the skills I came for by then, so…” Esther shrugs. “Anyway. Since Jimmy couldn’t come, I’ve got extra time to spend on you two.”  
“It was all for cosplay,” Bebe says, looking up from straightening her hair with a fond little smile. She grew up right next door to the Stoleys, so it figures she’d know. “Who do you think gives Kevin that perfect Spock hairstyle?” It’s weird, seeing Bebe with half a head of curls, and half a head of long, choppy blonde locks. But Esther is trying to make the two of them match, since they’ll be cosplaying the same type of alien, and apparently those don’t even _have_ curly hair.  
Tweek worries at his lip some more. Does he _really_ want this girl he barely even knows cutting his hair? Still – he knows what Dad would say. That it’s only hair; that it’ll grow back out. “Oh, okay,” he says at last, squaring his shoulders. Esther and Kevin bought tickets to that con for him _and_ Craig, after all. Tweek practically _owes_ her a haircut after that.  
“Great!” Esther looks so relieved that Tweek has to wonder just how bad his hair looks, and why nobody else has said anything. “Why don’t you hop into the shower and wash it? Easier for me to cut it that way. Bathroom’s at the end of the hall,” she adds, “And the towels are in that little closet by the window. Here!” She throws him a long-sleeved T-shirt, pale grey with a picture of Jason Momoa’s Aquaman on it – shirtless, all tattoos and muscles, with purple flames burning behind him. “You can keep that if it fits you,” Esther adds, wrinkling her nose.  
But… But it’s Jason Momoa! Tweek can’t believe his ears. He and Dad are both Marvel fans, through and through, so Jason Momoa was basically the only reason Tweek dragged his parents to see Aquaman last year. Not that Mom had required much dragging. “I can _keep_ this? Are you sure?!”  
“One of my aunts thought me liking the Aquaman movie meant I had the hots for _actual_ Aquaman,” Esther drawls, “And Kevin lost his _shit_ when I asked if he thought Red would want it. So that’s been sitting in my drawer since Christmas.”  
Tweek wants to say there’s nothing wrong with having the hots for Aquaman, but he doesn’t know Esther _that_ well yet, _and_ she’s giving him this awesome shirt for free. So he looks down at Jason Momoa, who smoulders back at him, and doesn’t say anything at all.  
Bebe shakes his head and giggles. “Poor Kevin.”  
“Poor Kevin my ass. He’s probably making out with Red in the car right now,” Esther’s saying, as Tweek slips out of her bedroom and pads down the hall towards the bathroom. A shower would actually be really nice. Tweek still feels all sweaty from being in that little windowless box of a studio, and his shoulders are achey from holding the skeletons up.  
After he’s washed his hair and cleaned himself up, Tweek puts on his new shirt. It’s a soft, thick material, about half as thick as a normal sweatshirt, so he’s more than happy to swap that for his smelly black button-up. Just a month ago, he’d have been _terrified_ of wearing something like this out in public, this shirt that practically screams “I’m into guys”, but now it’s just… Just a shirt. A shirt his own mother might actually try to steal, he thinks, as he walks back towards Esther’s room with that towel he used draped over his shoulders, but still…  
“Omigod, Jason Momoa!” Tweek jumps half a foot, but it’s only Red, running up the stairs with the casual familiarity of someone who’s been in and out of this house since she was a kid. “Tweek, where did you _buy_ that shirt, I need one!”  
Kevin, walking up behind Red in a much saner tempo, doesn’t say anything at all. But he gives Tweek a pleading look.  
“I, I don’t know,” Tweek yelps, “It was a present!” There. He’s done what he can, though Red still comes over to lift the towel off, so she can pull at the back of his shirt and read the label.  
“Goddamn it,” Kevin mutters, very quietly.  
“At least you know what to get her for Christmas now!” Tweek spins around, startled – he didn’t even realize Scott was here too, until he spoke. But now he’s standing next to Kevin, with Captain America’s shield stretched across his wide chest.  
“Dude,” Kevin says, shaking his head, “I swear you’ve got a death wish.”  
“Esther _hates_ all things Marvel,” Red explains, while she brings her phone up to take a picture of the label. “Hold still, okay?”  
“Somebody’s gotta keep her on her toes.” Scott grins, wide and wicked, before he pulls Esther’s door open. “Hey,” he says, and then ducks, as a pink slipper flies past his head and lands in the hallway, right in front of Tweek’s feet.  
Red snorts. “Esther _really_ hates all things Marvel,” she says, and puts her phone away. 

The first thing Esther does, after she’s finished swearing at Scott – half in English, half in some other language Tweek can’t understand – is to dab some blue makeup on the back of his hand. “Just leave that on while I sort your hair out,” she says, digging out an actual plastic cape and a pair of those long, pointy silver scissors. “We need to make sure you’re not allergic.”  
“What, to this stuff?” Tweek lifts his hand, studying the colour. This could actually be… kind of fun, he decides. Walking around with blue skin. “Okay.” He does his best to sit still while Esther cuts his hair, and is relieved when he sees that the bits landing on the newspapers she and Kevin laid out are all pretty short.  
“I want to keep the length,” Esther says, like she can guess what he’s thinking, “Just kind of… round it off a little? Don’t worry, you can just gel it back or whatever for school.”  
Tweek’s never owned a tube of hair gel in his life, but maybe Clyde can lend him some? Or maybe this new haircut will actually be pretty cool, and he can just leave it as is? “Are, are you guys having makeup tests,” he asks, glancing over at Scott and Red.  
Bebe, sitting next to Red, has finished straightening her hair. “We already know I’m not allergic,” she says, “But I totally don’t mind,” she adds, looking up at Esther. “Whatever you want, really.”  
“I’m not,” Scott says, “I’m just here to make sure my costume still fits. And, you know, for the free entertainment,” he adds, with a big, warm grin.  
“I’m doing both!” Red smiles up at Kevin. “We’re gonna try to match me with Jimmy, since he’s agreed to go as a Trill. So I need to see if any of the yellow uniforms’ll fit me, and then Esther’s going to paint some spots on my face. When she’s done with you, of course.”  
“Ops,” Kevin mutters, like he’s already given up. “The yellow ones are the Ops uniforms.”  
“ _I_ know that,” Red says fondly, “But Tweek might not, you know? Kevin’s sewn at least _half_ the costumes,” she adds, with a proud little grin at her boyfriend. “And he makes all the weapons, and stuff like the Klingon foreheads and Vulcan ears…”  
“Once you’ve made _one_ uniform, it’s not that hard,” Kevin mutters, but he’s clearly enjoying the praise.  
“Come _on,_ ” Esther says, putting the scissors down for a moment so she can shrug out of her cardigan – it really is getting warm in here, “I’ve made some weapons, too!” She goes on to explain the intricacies of making Harley Quinn’s mallet, but Tweek’s not even listening anymore, because he’s spotted Esther’s left arm.  
“Whoa,” he breathes, “You’ve got a tattoo?” It’s a pretty stupid question, really, considering he’s staring right _at_ it. But holy crap, it’s just the coolest thing – a full-figure Wonder Woman, using Esther’s own skin-tone as her skin, and with her costume picked out in red, blue and yellow. It runs down the length of her upper arm, with Wonder Woman’s feet stopping just above her elbow.  
“You like it?” Esther rolls her T-shirt sleeve all the way up, to show that she’s also got the “W” symbol tattooed above the character’s head, right on the side of her shoulder, and all Tweek can do is nod and breathe a very quiet “Whoa.” How the hell could she even afford to get something like this, let alone convince a tattoo artist to do it for her, when she’s still under eighteen?  
“For God’s sake,” Kevin growls, rolling his own sleeve up, “You think Esther’s the only one who’s got one?” And Tweek can only blink, because Kevin’s got a full-figure Spock there, wearing the blue-shirted Trek uniform, and _his_ shoulder has a Star Trek communicator on it, yellow to match the symbol on Esther’s shoulder. Is _this_ why Kevin always wears the sweatshirt from the gym uniform – so the teachers won’t find out, and tell his parents? “We came into this world together, so of _course_ we’d get tattoos together!”  
“And fake ID’s,” Esther chimes in, picking her scissors back up. “It’d never have worked, otherwise. We’re gonna keep going, and do a whole sleeve each. It’s just, you know, money.”  
“You see,” Scott drawls, “When these two tell you they’re sick of all the matching twin bullshit? They’re totally lying.”  
“As _if_ Wonder Woman’s even _vaguely_ similar to Spock,” Kevin says, so deeply affronted that Tweek has to bury the bottom half of his face in the damp towel still wrapped around his neck. Just so he can snort into that and Kevin won’t hear him.  
“Tch,” Esther says, pulling the towel off of Tweek’s neck and balling it up, before she throws it and hits Scott right in the face. “Get out of here, Captain Klingon.”  
“Sure thing, your majesty,” Scott drawls, tossing the towel on the floor. “C’mon Kev!” He puts his hand on the back of Kevin’s neck, gently pushing him out the door first. Tweek can’t help but think though, that Scott clearly saw that towel coming. That with his footballer’s reflexes, he could easily have ducked.  
“I’ll just toss this in the laundry for you,” Red says, stooping to pick the towel up, before she follows the two boys outside.  
“Tweek,” Esther says, startling Tweek so much that he jolts upright on her desk chair. “Tweek, relax, okay? I was just gonna say, you’re almost done. I just want to tidy everything up a little bit…” her voice drifts off as she leans in, way too close for comfort, to trim one lock in Tweek’s brand new bangs while he squeezes his eyes shut. Jesus! Having scissors that close to his eyeballs is exactly why he doesn’t like going for haircuts in the first place! She blow-dries it too, singeing the tips of his ears, not that Tweek’s about to complain. “Okay, that’s it,” Esther finally says, and Tweek can feel her brushing the last bits of hair off his shoulders.  
Then she makes him get up, and stand with his back to the big mirror in the hallway, while she angles a smaller mirror until Tweek can see the back of his head. “Well?” Esther sounds proud of her own handiwork. “What do you think?”  
What Tweek thinks is, WHOA. Because it’s just so… round. So puffy. His entire head looks a bit like a dandelion, just before it starts shedding spores. You can still see that Esther’s cut it into layers, though – it’s all sort of choppy but fluffy, just like Bebe’s straightened hair is. Wait; was this entire haircut literally about making the two of them match? Realizing she’s still waiting for an answer, Tweek turns to Esther, does his best to smile, and says, “It’s like a fluffy bowling ball?”  
Esther looks confused – like she can’t figure out if that was a compliment; or the diss to end all disses. “Oh-kay,” she says, before she turns to Bebe. “Does that mean he likes it?”  
Bebe laughs. “I think it means the jury’s still out,” she says, before she grabs Tweek’s chin between two fingers and turns his head towards the mirror. “It’s not going to be that fluffy unless you blow-dry it the way Esther did,” Bebe goes on, leaning in next to him, “So you can relax. Hey, don’t you think we look kind of similar?”  
Tweek’s about to ask her if that wasn’t the whole point, but the words die in his throat. Because damn, Bebe’s right – now that her curls aren’t distracting him, he can get a good look at her face next to his own.  
“Holy shit,” Tweek exclaims, loud enough for Kevin to come running out of his own bedroom, with Red and Scott right behind him. “You’re Tweekelina!” And then he has to explain, while Bebe’s hanging off his shoulder and shrieking with laughter, about how his mom invented a fake sister for him. “And Clyde was supposed to marry her,” he goes on, and he almost has to shout to be heard, because now _everybody’s_ laughing at him. “I can’t help it that Mom’s humour is weird!”  
“Oh, I’ll totally be your twin,” Bebe snorts, wiping her eyes. “I, I always wanted a brother! C’mere, let’s take a twinsie selfie!” Then she hands her phone to Red, who obligingly holds it up.  
“This is actually kind of spooky,” Red says, while she’s tapping the screen. “Okay, got it. Say “Tweekelina”?”  
Scott and Esther both howl with laughter, while Red takes a whole series of pictures. But Kevin’s suddenly stopped laughing – he’s just _looking_ at them, in this weirdly clinical way. “I’m having an idea,” he says. “And it’s totally logical.”

Aside from how he can’t go visit Craig two days in a row, Tweek ends up having the _best_ Sunday. The whole family sleeps in until eleven – or rather, Mom and Dad do. Tweek wakes up at ten and makes himself a coffee downstairs, which he carries out into the living room. Then he bundles up in the biggest blanket and sits on the windowsill with his mug between his hands – the Scorpio mug Mom got him, and watches the first snowflakes of the year fall and melt. Thinks about how, when Craig finally gets to come home, he could come for a sleepover. By then, the snow will probably be thick enough to stick around, and the two of them can sit here together, on opposite ends of the windowsill, sharing the same blanket.  
Then the alarm goes off upstairs. Mom makes pancakes more or less in her sleep, and Dad brews them all a pot of the Peruvian blend. At eleven forty-five on the dot, Tweek and his parents pile into the Datsun and drive off to the mall, to help rip out the burned fittings from the shoe store. The insurance claim has finally gone through, and even though he won’t get a pay-out yet, Mr Donovan’s finally free to start fixing the place up again. It’s just like when their house got burgled; all the families come out in full force, armed with buckets and crowbars and a lot of disinfectant. Mrs Stoley hands out paper facemasks to everyone, to protect against any lingering plastic fumes, while Mrs Valmer and her husband set up an actual collapsible buffet table on the walkway right opposite the store. The whole clean-up’s done in just under three hours; and that includes the food break.  
After all the trash bags have been dragged out behind the mall, where the tall bins are, Token and his dad follow the three of them home in the Prius. While Mr Black talks Mom and Dad through their case against Cartman and McCormick around the kitchen table, Token unzips his backpack to show Tweek an actual X-box 360 that he apparently doesn’t need anymore. He’s brought a whole bunch of different games for Tweek to try out, too – games that’ll work both on _this_ X-box, and on Token’s new X-box One. So the two of them take turns playing Bioshock Infinite until Tweek gets seasick, and then they play some retro arcade-style fighter that Tweek’s never even heard of; King of Fighters. It’s really fun, kind of similar to playing Tekken, except the graphics are way better.  
Token’s mom ends up coming over, too, and Dad quickly yanks the baseball cap off the Buddha head when she rings the doorbell, stuffing it into his back pocket while Tweek and Token do their best not to laugh. Then Dad cooks tofu curry with rice for everyone, and Mom defrosts some ice-cream for desert, and the Black family winds up staying until almost ten thirty – unheard of, for a school night. Token winks and says, “I’ll see you first thing tomorrow,” and Tweek can only wince and nod. Then Token gives him a quick hug and jogs down the front steps, turning to wave before he ducks into the Prius. Tweek’s had the best Sunday _ever,_ and he’s done it all on only half a Xanax, taken with his breakfast.

Even though it’s a school night, or maybe _because_ it’s a school night, Tweek crawls under his duvet with his phone and calls Craig. “Hey,” he whispers, and closes his eyes.  
“Hey babe,” Craig whispers back, and it’s almost like having him here again. “Anything nice happen today?”  
“Token gave me his old X-box,” Tweek tells him, “He just _gave_ it to me, out of nowhere! And we all went to rip the burned stuff out of Mr Donovan’s store, and yesterday Esther cut my hair to match Bebe’s, and did you _know_ we look exactly the same?!”  
Craig chuckles quietly. “Yeah, I check my Instagram sometimes,” he drawls. “Turns out your mom was more right than she knew, huh?”  
Tweek burrows his face into the duvet, and does his best to pretend he’s nuzzling Craig’s neck – it’s not the same, of course, but at least now he’s got _memories_ of nuzzling Craig’s neck to draw on.  
“So hey,” Craig says, suddenly all serious, “I remembered something. I thought maybe I dreamed it, but then I asked my mom about it today, and she said it really happened, so… So can I tell you about it?”  
“Of course!” Whatever this is, it seems to be bugging Craig something fierce. “You know you can tell me anything, right?”  
“Mm, wait a second.” There’s a rustling sound, and the Craig says, “Mike’s still asleep, so I can’t… It’s about, you know… with the crazy mom.”  
It’s so sweet, but so sad at the same time – how Craig’s obviously too considerate to risk turning the light on and read Clyde’s name off his photo. So Tweek decides to let him have it – just this once. “Clyde, right,” he says. “What happened?”  
“We were really little,” Craig says, “They didn’t live next to us yet, but we were always friends.”  
“Huh?” This is news to Tweek. “Clyde’s family used to live somewhere else?”  
“Mm. But we were friends, so then our moms were friends? So this one time, Nugget and his mom showed up… and he was scared, you know? Like, too scared to talk, he just kept crying. And his mom said to me, “Our house wants me dead.” So then…” Craig stops, like he has to gather his thoughts, catch this memory before it can slip through his fingers.  
“Jesus,” Tweek whispers, because he just can’t help himself. “That sounds pretty crazy.”  
“You should’ve _seen_ her,” Craig says, and his voice quivers, just a little bit. “She scared me, but I was sort of… too scared to freak out? That make sense,” he adds, and Tweek grunts in agreement. “So I said to come inside, and wait while I got my mom. So then Mom came, and told me to take Nugget up to my room. I remember Mom was super calm when she talked to her, but just… a little too calm, you know?”  
“Your mom must’ve been terrified.” Tweek can’t help but admire Mrs Tucker – he’s not sure _he_ could’ve kept his cool, faced with something like that.  
“Oh yeah,” Craig lets out a very quiet little laugh. “She called his dad, and he came as soon as he could. Mom said she wouldn’t let them leave with Nugget, and he was fine with that, so he stayed over – Nugget did, I mean, and his mom and dad went… somewhere?”  
“To see a doctor, I hope,” Tweek asks, but he has a bad feeling that’s not what they did at all.  
“I don’t know. But then, next door, they wanted to sell? So Mom helped set the whole thing up, and Nugget’s dad bought _that_ house, but…”  
“But it didn’t help, right?” Tweek’s starting to get really warm under here, but he doesn’t want to move.  
“It did for a little while…” Craig sighs. “Jimmy told you though, right? How she died.”  
“Mm. So when she said the _house_ wanted to kill her, I’m guessing she was _really_ hearing voices, right?” Tweek spent a month in mental hospital, after all – there were a few people like that on the open ward. “And those voices said they wanted to kill her?” He reluctantly pulls the duvet halfway off his head, leaving his nose free, but keeping his mouth – and his phone – still under the covers to muffle the sound.  
“Something like that.” Craig seems relieved that Tweek’s worked it out on his own. “Or maybe that was what she wanted, all along.”  
Tweek looks up at the ceiling. Damn, this is all way too serious for a Sunday night. “So hey, uh, how did those photos turn out?”  
Craig’s excitement level immediately skyrockets. “Honey, you should see yourself, they’re _insane,_ ” he says, and Tweek can tell how he’s trying to sound all normal, and not raise his voice because Mike’s sleeping just a few feet away.  
“You mean,” Tweek asks carefully, “I should see them for myself?”  
“No,” Craig snaps, “I mean, you should see what you look like! You’re like… the most beautiful thing ever. Oh shit, I actually _said_ that.”  
Tweek flips over on his stomach just in time, so he can laugh into his pillow and not wake his parents up.

Tweek groans, and feels the groan turn into a yawn just in time to cover his mouth. Getting up at five thirty am wasn’t exactly fun – and that had been pushing it. He’d only had half an hour to stumble out of bed, get dressed and make coffee. Token’s Prius pulled up outside the house at six on the dot, and the roads had been so empty that the drive to Jimmy’s house had only taken fifteen minutes. Clyde had been waiting there too, of course, with the two black gym bags, which he’d hastily shoved into the trunk in between blowing on his fingers. So on the rest of the way to school, whenever he's not drinking from it, Tweek had kept passing his travel mug to Clyde. Just so he’d have something to warm his hands on. Jimmy had sleepily made fun of them, but then he’d also stolen at _least_ half of Token’s drink, and not complained _once_ about it being too sweet.  
And now, for the first time in his life, Tweek is about to have _breakfast_ in the school cafeteria. They have the weirdest stuff on the menu, most of it with either sausages or bacon as a vital ingredient. So Tweek’s having an egg sandwich and a carton of orange juice; and for the first time in over a month, no pills at all. Day One of being on no meds whatsoever.  
“Morning, lover,” Bebe says, grabbing Clyde from behind and kissing the side of his face. She’s wearing two plastic bangles on her left wrist – one red with white polka-dots, the other see-through but with little glitter-stars inside it, and they clack together, right next to Tweek’s ear. Then she turns to Tweek, grinning. “Morning, twin. You boys manage to, ah, deliver the packages?”  
Tweek’s got his mouth full, so he only grunts in reply, but at least he manages _half_ a grin. He shifts over on the metal bench, to make space for Bebe between him and Clyde. It’s weird, how busy this place gets in the morning; they couldn’t even find _one_ four-person table that wasn’t already occupied.  
“Yeah, Operation Cross-Bones was a success,” Token says sleepily, arching one eyebrow.  
Tweek has a feeling they got here even before the _janitor_ did; they literally didn’t see a soul when the first snuck into the school, even though the front gates had been open. There’s a security guard, right? He could have done that, before he left for the day. So Jimmy had led the way with his keys, and Clyde had shouldered one bag on his own, while Tweek and Token carried the second one between them. The whole thing had gone off without a hitch – it had gone so scarily well that Tweek started getting anxious enough to pull his hair, after they’d finished hanging the female skeleton back up from her metal pole.  
“That’s great,” Bebe says, and reaches up to adjust her ponytail. Her bangles clatter again, and Tweek suddenly finds himself mesmerized.  
“How does it _do_ that,” Tweek asks, and pulls that sparkly star bangle right off Bebe’s hand so he can hold it up to the light. “How’d they get all those stars _in_ there?”  
Another girl might’ve been annoyed, he supposes, but Bebe just laughs. “I think they just put them right into the plastic, or resin,” she says, “Or whatever it is they used to make these. And then they waited for it to solidify?”  
“Uh-huh,” Tweek replies, distracted, while he spins her bangle like a coin on the table. It creates this really awesome swirly hula-hoop effect, when those gold stars catch some light from the ceiling lamp.  
“ADHD, huh,” Token says, and Tweek sits up with a start – oh shit! – as the bangle clatters to a stop on the table.  
“I’m sorry,” he mutters, picking the bangle up and holding it out to Bebe.  
Bebe shrugs. “It’s fine,” she says, slipping the red bangle off, before she puts them both on – with the sparkly one on the inside. “Look! You can’t even reach it now!”  
Tweek suddenly wants to hug her as tight as he can, but he’s onto himself now. He’s always had poor impulse control – looking at _you,_ ADHD! – but at least if he’s aware of it, he can slam the brakes on before he does something _really_ stupid. “Thanks,” he says instead, smiling even though his cheeks are burning. At least this is something he can write to Craig about – after last night, _he_ could do with having a laugh at Tweek’s expense. “You’re the best twin ever!”

First period has been cancelled, apparently. There’s a tinny announcement on the loudspeakers – Tweek recognises the sleepy drone of Mr Mackey’s voice immediately – for all students to assemble in the gym. It’s all so sudden and ad-hoc, nobody’s even had time to put chairs out, so they all just stand there, huddled together in their little groups while more and more people come in, forcing everyone to stand closer to each other. Tweek can’t help but notice how Token and Clyde position themselves on either side of Jimmy, to stop him from getting jostled too much. Jimmy’s probably well aware of what they’re doing, but since he seems to be cool with it, Tweek decides he might as well do his bit and go stand behind him. That also gives _him_ an advantage, where he can just bump his forehead against the back of Jimmy’s neck and rest his eyes.  
Red comes over, pulling Kevin behind her, and starts chatting to Jimmy about the new edition – Tweek himself couldn’t give less of a damn about the school paper right now. He can hear the friendly rumble of Scott’s voice; too, as he asks Token something, and Nicole’s chirpy voice joins in a second later.  
“Tweek,” Jimmy’s saying, with a little chuckle, “You’re s-snoring.”  
“’m not,” Tweek mutters, annoyed that Jimmy would make something like that up.  
Literally a second later, microphone feedback tears through the room, and Tweek – who was seriously just resting his eyes – jerks his head back and covers his ears, along with everybody else.  
“Um, sorry ‘bout that,” Mr Mackey says, bending over to pick up the microphone he just dropped on the floor. “I know you’re all wondering,” he goes on, and Tweek’s head dips right back down to rest on Jimmy’s left shoulder, “Why we’ve called you here this morning, but there’s been a serious incident, m’kay? A troubled student has tragically chosen to take his own life.”  
Tweek’s first thought is that Mr Mackey must be reading that off a cue card. His second thought is; what the hell?! He forces his eyes open, stands up straighter, as Mr Mackey talks about being available for grief counselling in his office for the rest of the day, and how all lessons have been cancelled. All around him, people are muttering. He can see his fellow students looking around, searching for a missing face in the crowd while Mr Mackey drones on, until finally someone shouts, “Sir! Who was it?”  
Instantly, the gym goes silent.  
“It was Kenny McCormick,” Mr Mackie says, and Tweek feels his throat close up.


	36. It's not your fault

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mrs Valmer is another South Park Mom who's never been given an official name - so I gave her one, because why not. I think Vera Valmer has a sort of "Suzie Q" ring to it, a little bit old-timey. 
> 
> EDIT: OMG my whole life has been a lie, turns out Mrs Valmer had a canon first name all along! I will make some edits, and then I will shut my ears in the oven door, a la Dobby. 
> 
> In my head I picture all the moms looking really different - Mrs Tucker tall and willowy, Mrs Tweak very petite and slim, Mrs Black as having an hourglass figure that she hides under cardigans and blazers, and Mrs Valmer sort of voluptuous, the way some black-and-white movie stars were. Not exactly slim, and not overweight either, but very curvy, and with a really pretty, heart-shaped face. She hides that by having her hair cut into bangs, because having a widow's peak always made her feel like she looked like a vampire; maybe when she was very little some older kids picked on her and called her Count Dracula? Yes, my head is a strange place to live in, I do realize that.
> 
> ALSO: The backstory I'm referring to here turned into a whole separate fanfic about how Tweek's parents first met and got married. You can find it under my list of works, if you're interested. Tweek even makes a guest appearance as a baby. ;) AND THERE IS EVEN FANART FOR IT: https://www.instagram.com/p/B2xltkqFwhc/?hl=en

The gym is buzzing with voices, bubbling over with questions, speculations, until one voice cuts through the din like a blade: “This is your fault!”  
It’s loud enough, and desperate enough, to instantly silence all the chatter. The crowd parts; forms a circle around two boys. One of them is raging, and the other one is standing very still. Peeking out at the two from behind Jimmy’s shoulder, Tweek doesn’t even know what he’s feeling. He’s just… numb.  
“You and your damn suicide tips,” Kyle Broflofski shouts, hands balled up and trembling at his sides. Like there’s nothing he wants to do more right now, than to punch Stan Marsh’s lights out. “Kenny was sick! He needed help, not… not that kind of help!”  
“Kyle,” Marsh says, raising his hand; then lowering it. Next to him, Leo Stotch is turned halfway away from the podium, and there’s a steady stream of tears running down his face. He’s not making a sound, not one sob, like he hasn’t even realized he’s crying yet.  
“Lashin’ out is actually quite common when you’re dealing with grief,” Mr Mackie says, just as Kyle shoves Leo Stotch out of the way and storms out of the gym. Heidi Turner runs after him, and Nicole looks like she wants follow too, the way she turns her head to watch them push through the crowd. “We’re cancelling all lessons for the day,” Mackie goes on, his voice settling into his usual toneless drone, “And like I said, my door will be open. Unless I’m talking someone else,” he adds, as though this has just occurred to him. “Then you’ll have to wait on the bench, m’kay?”  
Token sighs quietly, and Tweek sees Kevin and Scott exchange an eye-roll – Mr Mackie will never change, will he.  
“That w-woke you up, didn’t it,” Jimmy drawls quietly, looking down at Tweek and raising a single eyebrow. But Tweek can’t help but remember what Jimmy said, at the Roadhouse on Saturday. _I think he’d be making the world a better place._ Jimmy’s way too nice a guy not to feel guilty about that now.  
“Well,” Token says, sliding both arms over Nicole’s chest, like those X-shaped race-car seatbelts, and hugging her tight. He probably saw that look on her face, too, when Kyle ran past them. Does even Token get jealous? “I wasn’t expecting that.”  
“I thought Wendy said he was on suicide watch, though.” Bebe looks up at Clyde as if for confirmation, but then her eyes widen with worry. “Hey.” She snaps her fingers right under Clyde’s nose, while he just stares off into space. “Clyde!”  
“Mm,” Clyde mutters, shaking his head, like he’s shaking water out of his ears or something. “Yeah, sure.”  
“Dude,” Scott claps a hand on Clyde’s shoulder, “I think you should go get some air.” 

It’s snowing, just a little bit, and Tweek is grateful for his winter parka. He’s got the hood pulled up, and his hands inside the sleeves, though he slips them out occasionally to blow on his fingers. All his friends have hived off and left – Token to drive Jimmy home, before he can do a nosedive into his own bed. Nicole to check up on Kyle and Heidi; because of course someone as nice as Nicole is friends with both her ex _and_ his new girlfriend. Scott, Kevin and Red all caught a ride back to Kevin’s house with Token, since apparently Esther’s got the Enterprise today – but Token only offered after he’d made completely sure that Tweek would be okay on his own. And Bebe wrapped her arms around Clyde’s arm, and dragged him off for “a nice long walk”. Clyde seemed to be okay with that, though he didn’t say much. Tweek has the distinctive feeling Clyde’s not sad about McCormick at all – why would he be? The guy was part responsible for printing lies about his dad. But his death has probably dredged up a lot of memories; memories of a different suicide.  
For the seventh or eighth time, Tweek pulls his phone out of his pocket, just in case Craig’s texted him back. All he sent to Craig earlier was a message saying; _Something happened, can you talk now?_ But Craig’s probably in physio already, because there’s still no response. So Tweek quickly swipes through to that message Dad had sent him instead, while they were all still standing in the gym. _School called, on my way to pick you up,_ it says, but it doesn’t specify where he’s supposed to wait. Token thought the parking lot behind the main building seemed like the obvious choice, so that’s where Tweek is standing now. If he looks up (and up), he can just about work out where he was standing, that day. When McCormick was whispering in his ear. And now, _he’s_ the one who’s dead. Tweek shudders, and puts the phone back in his pocket so he can rub his hands together.  
A car horn pulls him out of his thoughts, and Tweek sees not the white Datsun but the red-brown Rabbit, waiting for him at the kerb. Dad leans across the seats and pops the passenger door open, waving him over. The swelling on his nose from that night when Clyde sleepwalked and punched him is almost completely gone now; even the bruises are starting to fade. Tweek pretty much throws himself inside the car in his haste to shut that door, and save what little warmth the poor old thing can generate.  
“So,” Dad says, as soon as Tweek’s taken his backpack off and buckled up, “Is there anything you want to do?”  
Tweek blinks at him. “Huh?”  
“Roger’s, ah, covering for me. If you can call it that.” Dad shakes his head fondly. “Your mother was showing him how to do espresso shots when I left. I did _not_ miss driving stick,” he adds, as the school disappears behind them, getting progressively smaller in the rear-view mirror. “When you drive automatic for a while, your other arm just sort of dies. Anyway – it’s not your fault.”  
“Huh?”  
“About the McCormick kid,” Dad takes his eyes off the road for just a second, and his stare is very firm. “Or even if you’re just, you know,” Dad shrugs, “Relieved that he’s gone.”  
“Gah!” At least being the only driver in the family means Dad knows how to keep a car on the road, Tweek supposes, no matter how loud he yells or squeaks. “How’d you even _know_ that?!”  
Dad snorts. “Because you’re exactly like your mother,” he drawls, “Except not obsessed with Paris.”  
Tweek can’t help himself, he snorts too. He lets his eyes slip shut for a few seconds, while he considers Dad’s offer. It’d be tempting to say he just wants to go back home and sleep, but this kind of thing doesn’t happen too often, Dad offering to hang out. There’s just never any time, with the coffee shop and stuff.  
“Milkshakes,” he says at last, turning it into a question. Even though it’s morning; Tweek is actually starting to feel hungry, too – must have been carrying that skeleton. “Milkshakes and fries?”  
“That’s within the budget,” Dad says, slowing down to let an ambulance overtake him. It doesn’t have the lights on or anything, and Tweek wonders for a second if it’s just transporting someone to rehab. They took Craig to Denver in an ambulance, after all. And now, he only has to wait _three_ days to see Craig again; Thanksgiving is on Thursday, after all. _If_ they say he’s okay to come back to South Park, but Tweek doesn’t want to think about that “if”.  
“Hey, Tweek,” Dad says, and Tweek gives a start as he realizes he must’ve drifted off.  
“Huh?”  
“I just said, Burger King behind the mall sound okay? Unless you’d rather just go to the IHOP, I think they do milkshakes?”  
“Ugh, no,” Tweek groans, “Token is _obsessed_ with IHOP. The waitresses are starting to recognise me!”  
Dad laughs quietly. “I never would’ve thought that, rich kid like him.”  
“Oh, Token _loves_ doing poor people stuff,” Tweek drawls, “His favourite T-shirt’s from Sloppy Seconds! It only cost him two dollars!”  
“See,” Dad says, “That’s why the rich stay rich. They know how to _save_ money!” They drive in silence for a while, and then, out of the blue, Dad goes on, “He’s a good friend though. That Token kid.”  
“Mm.” Tweek pulls one knee up under his chin, with just his heel balanced against the edge of the seat, and wraps his arms around it. “They all are.” 

By unspoken agreement, they eat in the car. It’s not exactly warm, especially since Dad has to start up the engine all over again, but it’s better than eating inside Burger King. It just stinks of cooked meat in there, plus homeless guys like to go sit there since it’s warm. Their fries taste like any old fries, but Burger King does the _best_ milkshakes, made with actual ice-cream. Tweek takes a careful slurp of his vanilla milkshake – he’ll have to ration it, so he won’t run out before he’s finished his fries.  
“So you know,” Dad is saying, frowning down at the sachet of ketchup that he’s trying to rip open, “How the main reason your mother and I got married so early, was to get her out of that house.”  
“Um, yeah,” Tweek says, before puts the corner of one of his own sachets between his teeth to try and rip it that way. That’s kind of a weird topic to bring up, out of nowhere. He feels the plastic start to tear, and takes it out of his mouth, before he carefully rips it the rest of the way open. Seriously, what do they expect at Burger King – for people to bring _scissors_ with them?  
“How much has she told you about… About what actually went on?” Dad’s phrasing the question so carefully that Tweek almost feels scared.  
“Mom only told me her foster-dad touched her up,” he says, feeling his heartbeat starting to pick up speed. “And that, that she used to be really scared of him? Wait, did he actually…” Tweek can’t finish that sentence.  
“No.” Dad draws a deep breath. “Though if she’d stayed there any longer…” He shrugs. “Who knows? But what he _did_ do was; he used to light a cigarette first. And then hold it right next to her face while he groped her.”  
“Jesus,” Tweek whispers. He’s seen how Mom will flinch and move away, if anybody’s smoking too close to her.  
“So then,” Dad goes on, “After we’d moved back, and had you, we randomly found out how the guy had died. Of throat-cancer caused by smoking,” he adds, while the shadow of a grin tugs at his mouth.  
“That’s _karma,_ that is,” Tweek says firmly, before he dips a single French fry in the blob of ketchup, and eats it. He already knew the guy was dead, of course. Mom’s evil foster dad has always been a part of the “How Mommy met Daddy” story, though his parents always made sure to gloss over the details of what exactly it was he did. So Tweek’s always known – and he’s always thought that was a _good_ thing – wait; what? Is _that_ what Dad’s trying to say?  
“So I told her we ought to celebrate, and your mother _hit_ me.” For just a moment, Dad sounds so deeply offended that it’s impossible not to snort.  
“What, like, she slapped you in the face?”  
“No,” Dad says, waving his hand as he draws the word out. “No, she just punched my arm. Not even that hard. And she told me she didn’t know _what_ to feel, because…” Dad stares thoughtfully up at the Rabbit’s ceiling. “Because even though he was an awful person; he was still a _person._ I’m guessing you’ve been thinking along those lines, too?”  
Dad has a drawn-out, slurping sip of his milkshake, while Tweek crams a whole bunch of fries into his own mouth, so he won’t have to answer that. But when Dad looks over at him, Tweek _has_ to nod.  
“Yeah, well.” Dad holds his milkshake out expectantly, until Tweek realizes what he wants and bumps his own plastic tumbler against it. “I guess this makes me one lousy Buddhist, but when someone who’s hurt my loved ones goes and dies?” Dad shrugs. “Then, all I feel is happiness.”  
It’s not that simple, Tweek wants to say. And also, How can it not be my fault, when I feel it in my bones that it _is?_ But there it is, like a little seed growing inside him – the relief. No more filthy parka, no more sing-song voice, no more forks to stab him in the back.  
“Uh, Dad? Did we just _toast_ his death?”  
“ _I_ did,” Dad replies, with his usual quick grin. “What you toasted is up to _you_.”

They wind up taking a shortcut to Tweak Bros via SODOSOPA, on the general assumption that nobody will ever bother carjacking the Rabbit. Dad also insists that lightening doesn’t strike twice – sure, the last time they drove through here, McCormick literally threw Kyle Broflofski into their car. But what’re the odds something _that_ messed up could happen again?  
“I’ll just be happy when we’re _out_ of here,” Tweek mutters, leaning against the window. He’s getting really tired now, but there’s no way he can sleep while they’re driving through _this_ neighbourhood.  
Suddenly, the ringtone he set for Craig goes off – that Carla Bruni song they danced to; because to Tweek, that’s _Craig’s_ song and always will be. It’s a soothing enough ringtone that he doesn’t even scream when it starts to play.  
“Are you breaking up with me,” Craig drawls, as soon as Tweek’s swiped to “Answer”.  
“What?! No, why –”  
“Something happened,” Craig says, and Tweek realizes he’s quoting that text message. “That could’ve been anything. Like Token deciding he’s bi and wants to date you.”  
“Gah! Even if he _did,_ I’d never…” Tweek blinks. “Wait. Was that a joke?”  
“Yup,” Craig replies, and he sounds very pleased with himself. “So, what’s the “something”?”  
Tweek closes his eyes. Slowly draws his breath. “McCormick killed himself.”  
There’s just silence on the other end for a while, and then Craig says, “Good.”  
“WHAT,” Tweek squeals, sitting up straight so fast that his left foot flails out and kicks the bag of empty milkshake cups and discarded Burger King wrappers on the floor.  
“He tried to kill you,” Craig says, so firmly that he almost sounds angry. “Twice. So he deserved to die. Simple as that.”  
“ _Nothing_ is that simple,” Tweek snaps, loud enough to startle _himself._  
“Please, babe.” Craig suddenly sounds very tired. “I don’t want to fight with you.”  
“Sorry,” Tweek mutters, pressing his face against the window again. He doesn’t want to fight either, and especially not _here,_ in front of _Dad._ Maybe it’s just this place that’s got him on edge… and that’s when he sees it. That flash of orange. A worn-out parka with the hood pulled up, and a tuft of dirty-blonde hair sticking out from under the fake-fur trim. “Holy shit!”  
For once, he’s managed to startle Dad into swerving, but they’re lucky – the streets here are empty. Almost nobody who lives out here can afford to keep a car running. “Honey, what happened,” Craig is saying, while Dad swears and gets the unfamiliar car back under control.  
“I, I saw him,” Tweek yells, tapping the glass with a shaking finger. “That was Kenny McCormick! He’s back, I saw him!”

Craig stays on the phone with him for the whole rest of the drive. Once, Tweek even hears him say, “Sorry, I can’t – this is important” – very faintly, like Craig’s covering the microphone with his hand. “Just talk to me, honey,” Craig says, as they go past the U-Store-It, “Tell me about something else. Remember how incredibly bored I am.”  
“Ngh, I didn’t sleep much,” Tweek grunts, scrubbing the back of his hand over his eyes. His heart is beating so hard, and so fast. What can he talk about? Anything, anything… “Kevin showed me photos! Cosplay photos?!”  
“Ugh, that damn nerd,” Craig grouses, and it’s only because Tweek’s spent all this time with him that he can tell how worried Craig is, under that carefully indifferent tone in his voice. “You watch it, babe. Next thing you know, he’s gonna make you up as Robin, to go with Malkinson being Batman, so _he_ can finally do Nightwing…”  
“Maybe?” Everyone’s heard of Batman and Robin, except maybe those tribesmen on Papua New Guinea who only read, and possibly worship, the Phantom. But Tweek has no idea who Nightwing is.  
“Trust me, babe. Stoley tried to make _Bebe_ do Robin back in May? But his sister was doing this whole “DC babes thing”, so she put her goat down.”  
“Oh yeah, Esther – gah!” Tweek’s just realized he’s pulling his hair again, and jerks his hand back down, wrapping the fingers firmly around his kneecap. No meds, no impulse control, shit. “She, she showed me! The photos were really cool!”  
“Goddamn it, you’re going to be the Stoleys’ next victim.”  
Does Craig know how much it’s helping, just forcing him to form coherent sentences? Does he _know_ that he’s the only reason Tweek isn’t hyperventilating and bawling? Tweek still can’t _help_ but stare out the window, to look out for another glimpse of orange, but what he _isn’t_ doing is having a panic attack.  
“So, ah, you know how they got me _two_ tickets,” Tweek asks, while his fingers start tapping on his leg. “For – ngh – that Star Trek thing?”  
“I’m not going with you,” Craig says flatly.  
“Gah!!” Tweek can see the coffee shop up ahead now – finally! – and behind that, the weatherworn façade of the Bijou. “At least hear me _out,_ you big…ARGH!”  
“I’m kidding, honey,” Craig says, talking over Tweek’s incoherent growls. “Stoley texted me about it. Even Token’s agreed to go.”  
“WHAT?!” Dad’s parking the car now, and as soon as he’s pulled the key out of the ignition, Tweek swings the door open and jumps out. “You’ll really do it?!” He barely remembers to grab the Burger King bag, so the poor Rabbit won’t stink of fries. “You’ll be my date for the Star Trek thing?!”  
“Star Trek thing,” He realizes that Craig’s started laughing quietly. “Sure, babe. Listen, are you going to be okay now? It’s just, they want me for, uh, physio.”  
“Oh shit,” Tweek whispers – was _that_ who Craig was shushing earlier? The nurses who are there to help him get better?! “I mean, I’m fine! Okay? Thank you, Craig,” he adds, closing his eyes.  
“Okay, honey.” Craig sounds relieved, like Tweek’s stupid little meltdown actually had him worried. “Love you, bye!”  
Tweek almost drops his brand-new phone on the ground. “Gah,” he yells, “Bye!” And then he leans against the side of the car, because his legs are suddenly trembling. People just _say_ that, right? When they’re hanging up the phone? Like how Mom said it to Dad, a few days ago. It’s just a way for a, for a couple to say goodbye. Right?  
“Tweek,” Dad’s saying, and from his tone, Tweek realizes he must’ve been saying his name a few times already. “Go talk to your mother, and I’ll dispose of the evidence.” Dad’s holding his hand out for the bag, but Tweek suddenly realizes he needs it – badly. He’s barely managed to open the thing before he doubles over and starts to vomit.

Tweek manages to shove the Burger King bag into one of the kerbside bins before it starts dripping. Then he wipes his mouth on his sleeve one last time, before he looks up at Dad and nods.  
“We’re getting the mattress out,” Dad is saying, and Tweek doesn’t have it in him to argue. Besides, maybe it would help, lying down. Having just a quick nap.  
Of course, Mom takes one look at him and knows something’s up. She leaves poor Mr Donovan to man the counter – the store is half empty anyway – and follows them into the back room. “What happened,” she demands, reaching up to put her hand on Tweek’s clammy forehead.  
“It’s no big deal,” he mutters, “I just threw up.”  
“No wonder you did, not when your father gives you junk food!” Mom pulls her hand back, and walks right past Dad, who’s bent over dragging the air mattress out from under the bench. “I can smell it on you both!” Quick as anything; Mom’s smacked Dad right across his butt.  
Dad lets out an indignant “Hey!” and instinctively tries to stand up; only of course he cracks his skull on the bench instead. “Goddamn it,” Dad growls, rubbing the top of his head before he starts to pull the Gigantex out of its carry-bag. “It can’t be food-poisoning, Helen – look at me! _I’m_ fine!”  
“Huh,” Mom says, emerging from the storage closet with a folded-up blanket, and a pillow in a red tartan pillow-case. “That’s just because you’ve got the constitution of –”  
“An ox?”  
“I was _going_ to say a cockroach.”  
“Helen!”  
Tweek pulls his parka off, and wads it up into a ball. Puts it on the counter, next to his green backpack. His hands are shaking, but not too badly, and he doesn’t even feel sick anymore. Just tired. He closes his eyes while he slips his new sneakers off, not bothering with the laces, and lets his parents’ familiar bickering wash over him. It’s almost… cosy. Mom’s not even annoyed, not really – she’s just worried.  
Dad musses his hair on his way out into the coffee shop proper, and Tweek can hear him saying, “Roger, thanks so much for helping out,” before the door clicks shut behind him.  
“Come here.” Mom’s spreading the blanket out over the yellow mattress now, and it’s suddenly the most tempting thing Tweek’s seen in his life. “And tell me what happened. When you were little,” she goes on, “You’d always throw up when you got nervous.” She fusses over him while he lies down, tucking the blanket around his feet.  
“Because I saw him,” Tweek mutters, as his eyes slide shut again. “Kenny McCormick in SODOSOPA.”  
The mattress wobbles for a second, as Mom sits down on the edge and puts her hand on his head. “You know, Tweek,” she says, “That McCormick boy, he had a brother. So maybe you _think_ you saw him, when it could have just been…”  
“Yeah,” Tweek mutters, as sleep is about to overtake him. Mom’s probably right. He _knows_ what he saw, but Clyde also used to be really damn convinced Craig got hit by a pink car. “Maybe.”

He wakes up to the smell of hot food, and the sound of his mother humming. Cracking one eye open, Tweek can see her at the stove, ladling rice onto the three plates she’s got lined up at the counter. Proper dinner plates, of course, not the little side plates with the Tweak Bros logo in the middle that the customers get.  
Tweek yawns as he sits up. “Hey Mom,” he says, smiling sleepily at her when she turns around. “Uh, what time is it?”  
“It’s nearly one,” Mom replies calmly, while she carries the rice pan over to the sink. “Lunch-time.” She starts to fill it up with water, so Tweek can’t quite make out what she says next. “You want to eat first?” Mom starts piling something that comes in an orange sauce on the closest plate. It smells so _good._ “You must be hungry.”  
Now that he thinks about it – yeah. Tweek nods, and then his stomach growls, right on cue. Mom just laughs, happy that he’s back to semi-normal.  
He gets up from the mattress, still clumsy and half asleep. Walks over to the cooker with the blanket wrapped around him like a cape, or a bathrobe. Sniffing the air. “That tikka marsala?”  
“It sure is.” Mom plants a quick kiss on his cheek. “Go get the cling-film for me, okay? And cutlery for yourself. Oh, and you should check your phone,” Mom goes on, while she holds the pan upside down over the middle plate, and scrapes the last of the sauce out. “We heard it going off in here.”  
After he’s helped Mom wrap the two remaining dinner plates in cling-film, and put the pans in the dishwasher for her, Tweek digs his phone out of his backpack and sits down to eat. There’s a long voicemail from Token: “Hey dude, I just wanted to check in with you and make sure everything’s okay? I, ah, heard from Craig how you thought you saw McCormick on the street, and I get that he’d be on your mind, but… The guy’s dead, Tweek. Lots of people probably own bright orange parkas, though it’s not a fashion statement I could get behind…” Tweek grins around a mouthful of quorn, green pepper and rice, while Token tells him to call if he needs anything and says goodbye all properly. There’s also a single text message from Jimmy; which reads: I’m an asshole and I know it.  
No you’re not, Tweek texts back, adding five exclamation marks before he sends it.  
Opening Instagram gives him something to do while he eats. He really was starving; Tweek has to remind himself to chew properly. Bebe’s posted a picture of the trees behind Stark’s Pond, all blood-red and golden. She’s captioned it with three of those autumn leaf emojis. Must be from that walk she forced Clyde on. Henrietta’s posted a picture of her own socks – only they’re not boring socks, they’ve each got a huge upside-down cross down the whole front. The caption reads, _My grandma may be a conformist Catholic but she takes requests,_ and Tweek suddenly realizes those are knitted socks. Hand knitted! He puts his cutlery down so he can comment; _Your grandma might even be cooler than Craig’s grandma!!_  
Her fellow Goths have commented too, of course – Michael’s written, _That’s SO GOTH_ and Firkle, _I approve, hail Satan._ That kid really _is_ like a five-hundred-year old vampire.  
Suddenly, his phone buzzes with a message, and Tweek almost chokes on his last mouthful. It’s a message from Jimmy – but all it says is, _Surprise!_ Huh?  
Literally two seconds later, Mom pushes the door open and says, “Tweek! Your friend’s here!”  
“Jimmy?!” Tweek jumps off the bar stool and tosses his plate in the sink, cutlery and all, before he grabs his tartan coffee mug. “I’ll collapse the mattress afterwards, okay?”  
“Okay, kiddo.” Mom chuckles quietly, “But wait! Just a second!” She runs over to the freezer, grabbing the towel from the oven on her way, and the roll of sandwich bags from the second drawer. “Hah! Here we go!” Mom triumphantly holds up a single cranberry scone, and quickly wraps it up in the bag and the towel. “You’ll know what to do with this,” she says, all mysterious, before she shoos Tweek out the door.  
And there’s Jimmy, standing right by the counter, balanced on one crutch while he slips his phone into the front pocket of his satchel. Mrs Valmer’s there, too, and standing between them… Tweek only spots the red hair from where he’s standing, and doesn’t see her face until he’s walked around the counter to say hi.  
“Surprise,” Jimmy says drily, but Tweek is too horrified to even acknowledge that he’s spoken.  
“Tricia,” he breathes, squatting down on his haunches so they’re at eye level, “Who did that to your eye?”  
“Pfft,” Tricia shrugs, “It was Karen McCormick. But she looks _way_ worse that me.”  
It takes Tweek a few seconds before he can even find his voice; he just keeps opening and closing his mouth. Tricia’s left eye is swollen almost completely shut; the puffy skin around it is mostly purple, though some of the bruising looks almost black.  
“What,” Tweek finally manages to say, “What happened?” And also, why would McCormick’s little sister even go to _school,_ on a day like this? Shouldn’t she have been at home, mourning him along with the rest of their family?  
“I told her I’m glad her brother’s dead,” Tricia tells him, and Tweek can’t help but notice how satisfied she sounds. “So then she hit me.” Tricia shrugs, and now she does smile – and the resemblance to Craig is suddenly so striking. “And I hit her back.”  
“Tricia…!” Tweek’s so horrified, he doesn’t even know where to begin.  
“He threatened Craig with a _knife,_ ” Tricia says, folding her arms across her chest. “And he tried to strangle _you._ So you can’t stop me from being glad.”  
“I wouldn’t w-worry about it, Tweek,” Jimmy says, as his hand lands on Tweek’s head. “I already r-read her the r-r-riot act in the car.”  
“So now we’re going to have cake,” Mrs Valmer says brightly, putting one hand on each of Tricia’s little shoulders. “And hot chocolate! Isn’t that right, Tricia? Her parents are going to punish her anyway,” she goes on, when Tweek can only gape at her, “But since I’ve been their emergency contact since Craig’s accident, well…” she shrugs, “What we do until _they_ get off work is up to me, right?”  
That’s when Dad starts to laugh and shake his head. “I like your style, Sarah,” he says, and Tweek realizes that must be Mrs Valmer’s first name. “Put your purse away, this one’s on the house.”  
“No, come on,” Mrs Valmer says, staunchly pulling out a credit card, “You’re running your own business here, and I want to support – ”  
“Tweek,” Dad says, leaning over the counter, “This woman repaired my back in _two days_. Do _you_ think she deserves free coffee and cake?”  
“You did?!” Tweek jumps to his feet, forgetting all about Tricia for a second. “You deserve free coffee and cake for a _year!_ You should’ve heard Dad _complain,_ he just went on and on!”  
That clearly wasn’t quite the answer Dad was hoping for, but it makes Jimmy _and_ Mrs Valmer laugh. And it’s funny, watching them – you’d think on the surface, how they look nothing alike and that Jimmy’s more or less a clone of his dad. But there’s this _warmth_ to both of them, and they have _exactly_ the same smile.  
Tweek suddenly remembers the frozen scone he’s been holding on to. “Here,” he says, pressing it into Tricia’s much smaller hands, “Hold this against your eye, okay? But be careful, it’s really cold.” Then he gets up to make the drinks – Jimmy and his mom both want a cappuccino, and of course Tricia’s having hot chocolate… Who would even have _told_ Tricia what happened in that hospital room?! Is that the sort of thing a kid her age could even cope with hearing about? His hands start to shake while he’s pouring espresso shots into the two cups. Obviously not – or she’d never have picked a fight with McCormick’s sister. Shit, this is _all_ on him.  
Meanwhile, Dad’s making a foam polar bear in Tricia’s hot chocolate, frowning with concentration, before he gets out the jar of tiny marshmallows, sprinkling them in. They look like bath toys, Tweek thinks, looking up from the triple leaf design he’s just finished on one of the cappuccinos. Or maybe sponges? Like, a polar bear would be too big to be able to wash with just one sponge, right? So it’d need a whole bunch.  
He looks up, to see that Tricia and the Valmers – now _there’s_ a band name! – have sat down around a window table. Tricia’s got a notebook open on the table-top, and Tweek can see there are equations scattered across the pages. Jimmy’s going over them for her, making corrections with a red pencil. Explaining while Tricia nods, pressing the improvised ice-pack against her eye. And Mrs Valmer’s just watching them with her chin resting on her hands, smiling fondly.  
“Better make two trips,” Dad’s saying, while he’s using the tongs to put their pastries on plates – an almond croissant, a cinnamon roll, and a glass bowl of tiramisu. “The trays are too small to – Tweek?”  
“Oh,” Tweek says, as he realizes that his eyes are stinging, that his cheeks are getting wet. “Crap. I’m sorry.”  
Dad just looks at him for a second, like there’s a question he wants to ask – a question that _isn’t_ “are you all right” – but then, he just claps a hand on Tweek’s shoulder instead and says, “I’ll take the stuff over. You stay here. Okay?”  
Tweek nods, and scrubs his sleeve over his eyes. “Okay, ” he mutters. He’s not even sure _why_ he’s crying.

Tweek ends up spending the rest of the day at Tweak Bros, only going outside to take the cash to the bank with Mom. Dad makes dinner, out of “emergency supplies”; which means bowtie pasta, a bag of frozen vegetables and a jar of Four Cheeses sauce. Mom snorts and calls it “student cooking”, even though neither of them ever went to college. That Tikka Marsala was originally supposed to be their dinner; only Mom decided Tweek should have a hot lunch since he’d thrown up and all. Still – Dad’s emergency dinner is so good that Tweek actually winds up having seconds. It’s already dark out on the drive home, and Tweek, riding shotgun for once, goes through all the radio stations until he finds one playing Weird Al’s Bohemian Rhapsody Polka. That does a good enough job of keeping the darkness at arm’s length. He can’t help but wonder what he’ll dream about, when he goes to bed tonight, but he has a feeling McCormick might have a starring role.  
They can all hear the hall phone ringing while Dad’s unlocking the door, so Mom jumps past him as soon as he’s opened it, and almost slips on the pink envelope on the floor. She catches her balance at the last second, and scoops up the cordless phone, panting a little as she says, “Tweak residence, lady of the house speaking?”  
Tweek bends over to pick the envelope up – under the footprint from Mom’s boot, he can see that it’s addressed to him. Just his name, no address or stamp, so it must’ve been hand delivered – and he’s already recognized the handwriting as Bebe’s.  
“Laura, hi,” Mom’s saying, looking past Tweek to exchange an unreadable look with Dad. “For Thanksgiving? No, we decided to just take it easy this year, why…”  
Hope turns into certainty as Mom’s eyes widen, and she starts to nod. So Craig _did_ get that day off! He _is_ going home! Tweek kicks his shoes off, tosses his jacket over the closest peg – it winds up hanging from an armhole instead of from the hood, but who cares? He runs into the living room, backpack dangling from one hand, the letter clutched in the other, and bellyflops onto the sofa. Not even bothering to turn the lights on, before he starts ripping that pink envelope open, using the light from his phone screen to read the single page he finds in there.  
_Dear Tweek,_ Bebe’s written, _If I know you, you’re feeling bad over what Kenny did right now. Don’t. He was dangerous & insane, & after everything he did to you over the years, I’M GLAD HE’S DEAD. There. I said it. And if you’re glad too, don’t feel bad, because he could have killed you_.  
There’s a click, and suddenly the lights are all on. “Electricity doesn’t cost _that_ much,” Dad drawls, as he walks past Tweek and into the kitchen.  
“Thanks, Dad,” Tweek says absently, putting his phone down on the armrest. Now that he can see well enough to take a good look at her stationery, he can see how pretty it is. This one’s from a set he hasn’t seen before. The page itself is pink, and there’s a watercolour blue-tit sitting on a branch printed at the bottom.  
_Also, don’t worry about Clyde. This whole thing dredged up a bunch of shitty memories, but we went for a four hour walk (MY FEET!!) & talked about it, so he feels better now. More on that later. I feel bad for Kyle; he has what my mom calls “a real saviour-complex” & I think that’s why he stayed friends with Kenny for as long as he did. Kyle’s not stupid, he must’ve known what Kenny was up to (as in: bullying the shit out of YOU), but I BET he thought he could help the guy “get better” somehow. It was pretty much common knowledge that Kenny’s parents hurt their kids, but that will never excuse the things he did to you. (Clyde told me about that, after the whole school paper saga & Kenny trying to strangle you in Craig’s hospital room. Thank GOD Nicole gave you her Snickers btw!!) So be a good twin and don’t beat yourself up, and I’ll bring coffee flavoured Pocky to school tomorrow – I’ve been saving it just for you. _  
Here, Bebe’s drawn a big heart and five little x’es; and signed her name underneath. But there’s a PS right below it: _Now turn the page for some Nuggets of wisdom ha ha ha._  
“Another letter from Craig,” Mom asks, leaning over the back of the sofa.  
“Nah,” Tweek says, turning over on his back and pulling his knees up. “From Bebe. Wanna sit?”  
“No thanks, but listen to this,” Mom looks so excited, like she can barely wait to break the big news to him. “That was Craig’s mother on the phone, and – ”  
“And she’s invited us over for Thanksgiving?”  
The look on Mom’s face is priceless. “Well,” she says, and she sounds almost offended, “Yes!” Then her face suddenly brightens up again. “Oh, but I can’t wait to tell your father!” She bounds past him and into the kitchen, saying, “Richard, you’ll never guess…” and Tweek turns the page over, his breath catching when he recognizes Clyde’s blocky handwriting.  
_Hey. So this is going to sound stupid/look stupid/whatever. I mean, I could just tell you in school tomorrow. But this stuff isn’t easy to talk about. So here goes: It’s 100% normal to feel guilty when somebody commits suicide. I mean, in my head I know that my mom was sick, and that it wasn’t me who made her do what she did. But that’s not what I believe, you know? This kind of thinking is the kind you get stuck inside. So don’t do that to yourself. Okay? See you tomorrow._  
Clyde’s signed it _“Yours, Nugget”_ , which makes Tweek grin. But maybe he _is_ right – maybe everybody is. Because it’s not like Tweek went over to Denver and held a gun against McCormick’s head, right? His family doesn’t even _own_ a stupid gun! He never went around saying to himself, “I wish Kenny McCormick would die”, or anything like that, either. Tweek wants to get _better,_ but this death is exactly the sort of thing his OCD will latch onto and force him to think about, again and again, until he really believes it is his fault… And what’s that going to accomplish?  
Tweek sits up, folds his legs underneath him in the Lotus position, and carefully sets his letter from Bebe and Clyde down on the empty seat next to him. Rests his hands on his knees, palms down, and closes his eyes. “Not my fault,” he says out loud – but quietly, so his parents won't hear. “Not my fault, not my fault.” If he says it one hundred times, maybe he’ll even start to believe it. 

Tuesday starts out nice enough; it’s a surprisingly warm morning for November so Tweek doesn’t even need to keep his hood up when he walks through the school gates with his friends. Everybody’s in a good mood, even Clyde seems to be back to his old self, pressing a big plastic spider he found in his closet last night on Token.  
“What would I want this for,” Token’s saying, holding the thing by one leg, between two fingers.  
“To scare Nicole with, duh!”  
“You could put it in her b-bag,” Jimmy adds helpfully. He seems to be feeling better, too.  
Token looks completely mystified. “Why would I want to scare my girlfriend?”  
“Because it’s fun?”  
“Frightening Bebe is Clyde’s f-favourite hobby,” Jimmy drawls, grinning as he nudges Tweek, while Token launches into a whole rant about how he’s not about to put a spider in Nicole’s bag after the whole skeleton incident on Saturday – while he’s pulling at Clyde’s sweater, trying to shove the spider down the back of his shirt.  
Just watching his friends horsing around makes Tweek feel all safe and happy. Now Clyde’s got the spider back and he’s trying to shove it down the front of Token’s jeans, while Token squirms and swears at him, and Tweek has to laugh until his stomach starts to cramp up. But that’s when he sees them – Stan Marsh and Kyle Broflofski. Walking together, just up ahead, Marsh with his arm around Broflofski’s shoulder. And Kyle’s not shaking it off, he’s _laughing_ at some joke his friend must’ve cracked – as if yesterday never even happened.  
“What the hell is up with them,” Tweek snaps, jerking his chin at Marsh and Broflofski when Jimmy just stares at him. “After Kyle got so mad at Marsh yesterday?”  
“When w-was that,” Jimmy says, and maybe he thinks it’s _funny,_ acting all confused. But all it does is make Tweek’s blood boil.  
“Oh, come _on,_ ” he snaps, using Jimmy’s own catchphrase without thinking, “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten about what happened in assembly?!”  
“Assembly,” Token asks, doing his best to discreetly unzip his fly so he can pull the spider out that way. “When was that?”  
Tweek growls; and nobody can blame him for tugging on his hair under these conditions. “Yesterday,” he snaps, “With Mr Mackie! You know, when he told the whole _school_ McCormick had killed himself?!”  
Clyde laughs, but it’s a nervous and uncertain laugh. “Dude,” he says, “I think we’d remember something like that.”  
It’s been so long since Tweek felt this kind of fear. The kind that’s like having an ice-cold claw-hand reach inside his chest, squeezing his heart until he can hardly breathe. “Are you serious,” he wheezes, hands shaking as he pulls his phone out and swipes through the screen-lock with a trembling finger. “Token, you even left me a voice-mail about it, let me just…” Tweek dials the number, and sets it to loud-speaker. He _knows_ he saved that message instead of deleting it, because he listened to it _again,_ just after his evening meditation, before he went to sleep. But now, all the tinny recorded voice says, is “You have no new messages”. Again and again, on repeat, until Tweek ends the call. They’re all… _looking_ at him.  
No, no, he hates this! Frantically, Tweek opens his chat with Jimmy instead. Hands shaking so bad he almost drops his phone on the ground twice. “You texted me about it,” he all but yells in Jimmy’s face, “You felt bad because you’d said he _should_ kill himself, but you were only… kidding…” Tweek’s voice trails off. The message is gone, and so is his own reply.  
“Nothing in m-my chat-log either,” Jimmy’s saying, thumbing through his phone before he holds the screen up for Tweek to see. “Are you sure you didn’t just have a really r-realistic dream?”  
Not being able to breathe properly sucks. It makes you all dizzy, for one thing; Tweek suddenly staggers, and Token grabs his arm. “I’m, there’s nothing _wrong_ with me,” he says, pleading, but even _he_ can hear how crazy that sounds. Now that he thinks about it, Mom and Dad didn’t bring up McCormick’s suicide either this morning. They all had breakfast together before they got in the car, and they spent the whole drive to Tweak Bros talking about what they’re going to wear to the Tuckers’ for Thanksgiving. Debating what kind of gift they should bring; with Mom outright vetoing Dad’s suggestion of just getting Mrs Tucker her very own sack of cinnamon rolls from Costco, “Since she seems to like ‘em so much”. They were both so worried about him yesterday, but today… They didn’t even mention it, not once…  
“Tweek,” Clyde says, pulling him out of Token’s grip, “Come on, let’s go ask _them_.” He means Marsh and Kyle, of course, who have just stopped walking so Leo Stotch can catch up with them. Stotch runs through the gates, past Tweek and the rest of the guys, and stumbles to a halt right in front of those two, doubled over and panting.  
“Hey Kyle, Stan,” Clyde yells, dragging Tweek behind him, “Can you two tell us how your pal Kenny’s doing?”  
Just for a second, Tweek sees it – that confused look on both their faces. Stotch freezes up too, turning to stare at Tweek. His glass eye does look realistic; even this close up, Tweek would never even have guessed it was a fake unless Stotch had told him.  
“He’s in… mental hospital?” Kyle looks over at Marsh, as if for confirmation. “We visited him in… mental hospital, right? On Saturday?”  
“Dude,” Marsh says, and even though he suddenly looks so sure of himself, Tweek would bet money that he’s bluffing, “Kenny’s not in mental hospital; he’s in juvie! Right, Leo?”  
“Um, y-yeah,” Stotch says, his gaze flickering uncertainly between Marsh and Tweek. “Yeah, my dad and I went to visit him after church yesterday! At, at juvenile hall in Denver!”  
“Anyway,” Stan walks over to stand right in front of Clyde, like he’s sizing him up for a fight, “I’m surprised _you_ give a damn about Kenny.”  
“Oh, I _don’t,_ ” Clyde replies, taking a step closer, in spite of how Tweek is now tugging on his arm for dear life. But it’s like taking a dog that’s bigger and stronger than you for a walk; he doesn’t stand a chance.  
“Dude,” Kyle snaps, before he elbows Marsh in the ribs. “Don’t be an idiot.”  
“Y-yeah,” Stotch agrees, clenching his hands at his sides. “All that matters; is that _we_ care about Kenny. Right, fellers?”  
Marsh grunts something unintelligible, but he does break eye contact and turn his back on Clyde, walking away with strides so big, Stotch has to start running again just to catch up with him.  
“Guys, I’m sorry,” Kyle says, shrugging. Then he turns and starts running after Marsh too; and his longer legs let him catch up with Marsh before Stotch does, even though he started running first.  
“Tweek,” Clyde says, and he looks so concerned that Tweek just wants to scream, “You told me, remember? That there might be side effects, when you stopped taking you-know-what?”  
Tweek has to close his eyes for a second. Don’t cry, don’t cry, he chants wordlessly to himself, until he’s finally got himself back under control. “Yeah,” he says, opening his eyes and smiling shakily up at Clyde. “That’s got to be it. Man, I…” He has to swallow, to choke down a sob, because one sob will turn into two, and then four, and then keep multiplying until Token decides to skip first period and drive him home. “I guess it really must’ve been a dream.” Tweek literally feels like his internal organs are boiling and melting from the panic he’s suppressing, but somehow, he even manages to grin. “As long as I’m not going crazy, right?”


	37. Not liking Tweek is like not liking cheese

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoiler alert: If you came here looking for angst, well - this is the chapter for you. It's not as bad as Chapter 12 though, so if you survived Chapter 12, you can survive this one with only minor bruising to your soul. Or so I hope. But don't worry, I have included a handy resource for you at the very end to help you recover.
> 
> EDIT: Oh, and here's the music Tweek tries to calm himself down with:  
> https://www.youtube.com/results?search_query=medwyn+goodall+way+of+the+dolphin  
> WARNING for heavy use of synthesizer and excessive dolphin sounds (I do kind of like it, though).

Bebe must’ve got to school early today, because she’s already in the classroom when Tweek and his friends file inside. “Oh, hey,” she says, and abandons whatever homework she’s been going over to start digging through her bag.  
“Hey, beautiful,” Clyde says as he goes over there, leaning his elbows on her desk, sticking his chin out expectantly. Bebe stops searching for just a second, so she can slip her hand around Clyde’s neck and give him a quick kiss – a much quicker one than what Clyde was clearly hoping for.  
Token gently nudges Jimmy’s arm, sharing a quiet snicker over Clyde’s crestfallen face, but Tweek doesn’t think it’s all that funny. His head is still spinning from what happened out in the school yard, from how _nobody_ seems to remember that McCormick killed himself in mental hospital. Or that he was ever in mental hospital to begin with… Tweek closes his eyes, and pictures that orange hoodie he spotted someone wearing. Tries to hold onto that memory, play it back so he can examine it more closely. It hadn’t _just_ been the blonde hair that frightened him, had it – it was the posture, the hands jammed into pockets with the elbows sticking out sharply, the lanky bounce in every step…  
“Tweek,” Bebe says, breaking his concentration. The memory flutters away, and Tweek, grunting in irritation, opens his eyes to find her dangling a bright orange packet of Pocky right in front of his face. “See, I remembered!” Tweek’s eyes widen as he stares at the packet. “Milk Coffee” it says, right under the logo; there’s even a little cow superimposed on top of the pocky-sticks; enjoying a latte and licking its lips. Coffee flavour pocky; just like Bebe mentioned in her letter – her _letter!_  
“Bebe?” Tweek takes the packet – he knows he’ll have to be careful about how he phrases this, because if everyone _else_ has forgotten, Bebe probably has, too. But what if he can jog her memory? “Thanks, but… when did you promise to give me these?”  
Bebe opens her mouth to reply… And freezes there; with her red lips forming an “O”, her forehead scrunched up in a frown. “I… that was… yesterday?”  
“C’mon, Tweek,” Clyde cuts in, throwing an arm around Bebe’s waist and pulling her close, “Don’t break my girlfriend.”  
“You asshole,” Bebe giggles, now thoroughly distracted as she squirms around in Clyde’s grip and starts to tickle him.  
There goes his chance to make her remember, and Tweek’s hand tightens around the box. Goddamn it. There is nothing Tweek wants to do more than to press her on it, to try and _force_ Bebe to remember, but not here. Not now, in front of everyone. They’ll just think he’s acting crazy again. “Doesn’t matter,” he says, forcing himself to shrug as he stuffs the packet into his coat pocket. “Thanks, anyway!”  
But wait… Where did he put the letter last night? Maybe if he can find it, and _show_ it to Bebe – and to Clyde! Unless, of course, the letter has also ceased to exist? Tweek groans out loud, and stumbles over to his own desk on the back row. Yanks the chair out and throws himself into it, before he pulls out his new phone and texts Mom: _Remember I got a pink letter yesterday? Do you know where it went?_  
Mom pops online immediately, and Tweek has to bite down hard on his lip so he won’t growl with impatience while he waits for her to finish typing. Suddenly, Mom’s reply pops up on the screen, and now, Tweek does groan out loud. _You have to look after your own things, Tweek,_ she’s written, _Letter, wallet, underpants… Not my job_. She’s added a smiley face to soften the blow, but still – all he did was ask! Tweek doesn’t even bother typing a response, just tosses his phone into his backpack and slumps in his seat. Damn it! Every time he _tries_ to picture what he did with Bebe’s letter, he just draws a blank.  
A horrible thought hits him: If McCormick really _isn’t_ dead. Does that mean it _was_ him yesterday, strolling through SODOSOPA with his hood pulled low? Tweek suddenly feels cold all over. 

Clyde’s gone for half their lunch break, and not even Bebe knows where he’s disappeared off to. Tweek pokes at his veggies-and-bean casserole, unable to get the image of _someone_ in an orange parka dragging Clyde behind the bike sheds and pulling a knife out. Because it’s better than a) worrying and b) trying to eat this crap they call lunch around here, Tweek holds his phone under the edge of the table and texts Dad on their private chat. _Did you see what I did with my letter I got yesterday?_ No response though; not even those two ticks to say his phone’s received the message. Tweek sighs. It’s lunchtime, after all. The coffee shop always gets busy at lunchtime.  
“Guys! Guys! You’ll never guess what happened!” Tweek jerks his head up – finally, Clyde’s here, alive and ecstatic, running over to their table without even bothering to buy food first. “Go on,” he says, throwing his arms around Bebe and almost pulling her off the bench in his eagerness to hug her, “Try to guess!”  
“But you just told us it’d be impossible,” Token drawls, folding his arms and leaning back from the table, one corner of his mouth twitching upwards, and his eyes crinkling, though he’s doing his very best not to smile.  
“Come on,” Jimmy says, grinning over at Tweek, who’s decided he may as well just push the gross beans to one side and try to eat the rest of the vegetables. “It c-can’t be that ha–”  
“I MADE THE BASKETBALL TEAM!!”  
Tweek’s whole body gives an almighty jerk, and his right arm plunges the fork into the food his plate with so much force that it sends the whole tray skidding down the table. “GAH!” It teeters right on the edge for a millisecond, and Tweek can already _see_ it going splat on the floor. But at the last possible moment, Nicole’s hand shoots out, and grabs the tray.  
“N-nice reflexes,” Jimmy says, as he takes the tray from her and passes it back down to Tweek. “Or was that on p-purpose?” He looks down on the disgusting mess on Tweek’s plate, then up at Tweek, who shrugs in response.  
“Fifty-fifty?” It’s such a good feeling, when everyone laughs at his joke. Just a few weeks ago, Tweek hadn’t even known that was _possible_. “Thanks, Nicole,” he adds, “I should get you a Snickers or something,” but Nicole just smiles and shakes her head.  
“I just had a meeting with _both_ the coaches,” Clyde’s saying, “And they basically said that they don’t wanna kill me, so they’ll be cooperating on the schedules and stuff. They’d never have done this kind of thing before, but they said I’m the best of the reserves, and now that McCormick’s expelled…” He shrugs, and grins. “Isn’t that _awesome?!_ ”  
“So Clyde, just to clarify,” Token folds his hands on the table, like this is a board meeting and he’s chairing it. “You’re already a starter on the football team. And now, you’re a starter on the basketball team. When do you plan on doing things like homework, and sleeping?”  
Clyde just laughs and waves his concerns away, with the arm that isn’t wrapped around Bebe’s waist. “Dude, are you kidding? It’s gonna be fantastic!”

During the second half of the school day, the Tweak family thread is unusually busy. Mr Donovan pops on there, announcing that the contractors are just about done fixing the shoe store back up. If he can just get all his stock back in there tonight, they might even be able to open up again “sometime tomorrow”. That’s a big “if”, though, because Mr Donovan’s stock has been spread all over town – and all over his house. The reason Clyde hasn’t had anybody over since the fire is because, as he put it, there was nowhere for anybody to _sit_. Then there’s the temporary unit they rented at U-Store-It; whatever the Black family stored in their cavernous house, and the Valmers and Tweek’s own family kept in the garage.  
Luckily the Datsun’s also been fixed, and Bryan’s agreed to work the afternoon and evening shifts with Mom. So Dad can finally move the entire load of shoeboxes back; and lock the car up safely at night. He picks Tweek up after school on his way from the garage – déjà vu, big time – so he can help out with moving the boxes. They’re in such a rush, there’s not even time to go inside the house; Tweek has to just toss his backpack in through the front door – after taking his phone and wallet out, of course. The Datsun’s looking all shiny and new with a fresh coat of paint, but it’s not like it grew any _bigger_. Even stacking the shoe boxes like Lego bricks, there’s no chance they can fit everything in; that’ll take at _least_ two more trips. But Tweek’s getting dropped off at the mall, to help stack the damn things in the stock room – Mr Donovan is even insisting on paying him.  
“Maybe Jimmy or Token will be there,” Tweek wonders idly, chewing on the skin next to his thumbnail. He and Dad are driving up to the mall with their first car-load of shoes. The auto-shop Mr Donovan picked did such a good job on the Datsun; there’s no sign that Cartman ever vandalized it. Good thing Dad took a bunch of pictures of the damage on his phone.  
Dad shakes his head. “Jimmy won’t be. The Valmers are sitting this one out. From what his mother was saying, Jimmy’s not happy about it, but…” Dad shrugs, and Tweek gets it. There’s being inclusive, and then there’s being impractical – Jimmy can’t very well carry shoeboxes, when he needs both hands to use his crutches. It must sting like hell though, knowing that no matter how hard he works, his friends will be able to finish it faster without him. But what if…  
“What if he pushes a trolley or something,” Tweek asks, as the idea hits him. “I mean, if we borrowed a shopping cart from somewhere. Then he’d have something to hold on to, right? For balance, I mean.”  
“Huh.” Dad looks over at him for a second, grinning, before he looks back at the road. “Great minds think alike,” he drawls. “Apparently Jimmy himself suggested something that. But Sarah’s worried he’ll overextend himself, so…” Dad shrugs, as he pulls up at a red light. “So…” Dad shifts a little in the driver’s seat, and Tweek can hear something in his shoulder pop, “I told her I’d drop by, and take whatever they’ve got. Maybe I’ll get Jimmy to pass me some boxes. You think he’d go for that?”  
“Yeah, I…” Tweek stops to actually think about it, “I think that’d work. If Jimmy stands by the car, and you just hand him boxes to stack. Then at least he can hold onto the car if he needs to, right?”  
Dad grins down at him. “Sounds like a plan. Oh, and I had a look, by the way.”  
“Huh?”  
“For that letter you mentioned? Couldn’t find it, though.”  
Tweek closes his eyes. Maybe the letter just… disintegrated, or maybe it was never even written in the first place? Or maybe it’s slipped behind something, maybe he put it inside a book for safe-keeping, or…  
“Tweek? What’s wrong,” Dad’s asking, and Tweek quickly understands why – shit, he hadn’t even _realized_ he was pulling his hair. But what can he say – I’m scared I might be going crazy? He can’t put his parents through all that again, he just _can’t_. “Was it important, that letter?”  
“Kind of,” Tweek mutters, putting his hands down on the car seat, before he slides them flat under his butt. “Sorry, I… I must’ve put it in my room or something.”

“Uh, so what’s with the men’s dress shoes in the ladies’ sneakers box?” Henrietta holds the box in question open, and Tweek groans out loud.  
“My parents packed those back up,” he sighs, pulling his hands through his hair. “The ones they aired out in our staff room? They had to flatten all the boxes, and they must’ve been in such a rush – I mean, they went in extra early Saturday morning to pack the shoes back up before they opened the coffee shop, and –”  
“And you’re supposed to leave your hair alone,” Clyde cuts him off, as he puts his hands on Tweek’s shoulders, each one encasing his whole shoulder. “I’m surprised you’ve still got hair _left,_ dude,” he jokes, while Tweek drops his hands to his sides and drops his gaze to the grey cement floor. Clyde’s big on eye contact, which is something Tweek’s never been too great at.  
“Damn,” Henrietta says, shaking her head. “Your folks really went that extra mile, huh?” Suddenly, she doesn’t sound annoyed at all. “There’s three of us, right? Shouldn’t take us too long to sort ‘em.” When she puts the box down on the top of the trolley, he notices how her nail polish isn’t just black – there’s like, shimmers of purple hidden in it.  
“Okay!” Clyde grabs the handle at the back of the trolley. “Can you two get the doors, and I’ll push this thing?” Even on wheels, that trolley must weigh a ton – it looks like a forklift without the little truck thing attached at the back; and the entire load of shoes that was in Dad’s car fits on there.  
Henrietta unlocks the double doors behind them, which open into a deep, dark warehouse straight out of a horror movie. At least _half_ the fluorescent light tubes in the ceiling are flickering, and aside from the three of them, Tweek can’t see a soul down here.  
“Service elevator’s at the back,” Henrietta tells him, locking the heavy doors from the inside while Tweek holds them in place for her, hoping she won’t notice how he’s balanced on his heels and leaning backwards, to make up for what a skinny weakling he is.  
“Right.” Jesus, what’s he supposed to _talk_ to Henrietta about, anyway? “Uh...”  
“C’mon,” she says, reaching down to put her hand between Tweek’s shoulder-blades – Henrietta’s taller, but then, most people are – and giving him a gentle push. “We need to hustle before the conformists get here.”  
“What,” Clyde says, holding his hand up and effortlessly catching the keys as Henrietta throws them to him, “You don’t count Tweek as a conformist? That’s so sweet!” His tone is teasing, and so is his big grin, as Tweek and Henrietta slip in next to him. The pallet of shoes takes up maybe half the space in the lift. There’s a keyhole right under the pad with the buttons, and Clyde has to shove a different key in there to activate the elevator, before it’ll let him select a floor. “Dude, that means she _likes_ you,” he mock-whispers to Tweek, who can’t help but wince at the joke. Clyde really has no idea.  
Seconds later, Henrietta’s middle finger is extended right under Clyde’s nose. “All those footballs to the head have clearly given you brain damage,” she says, looking him right in the eye and doing her best to scowl. She can’t keep it up though, and pretty soon, Henrietta’s laughing and grinning just as wide as Clyde is. “I, I mean,” she snorts, “Not liking Tweek is like not liking _cheese,_ you know?”  
Tweek explodes into startled laughter. “That’s, that’s the nicest thing anyone’s,” he chortles, “That anyone’s ever…!”  
It’s warm in the lift, and it’s a long ride up, so Tweek takes this chance to shrug out of his jacket and tie it round his waist. Something bumps against his leg, and he suddenly remembers the box of Pocky Bebe pressed on him earlier. Henrietta likes coffee, right? So Tweek pulls them out and pops the box open, and Henrietta makes an approving noise as she pulls two out.  
“Thanks,” she says, and it strikes Tweek how he’s never _seen_ Henrietta this relaxed before, this happy. “I didn’t know they _came_ in coffee flavour!”  
He holds the box out to Clyde too, but Clyde just smiles and shakes his head. “Oh, they’re from Bebe,” he says, and Tweek notices how Henrietta’s carefree smile instantly stiffens, just a little bit. “She bought this huge multi-pack this summer, at Comic Con? And now she’s only got the weird flavours left.”  
“So when’s _she_ coming,” Tweek asks, just to say something. Just to distract him from how quiet Henrietta’s gone.  
“Oh, Dad didn’t ask _Bebe’s_ parents to store any shoes,” Clyde tells him, with a guilty little laugh. “My dad lives in _terror_ of Bebe’s dad.” He stops to think about it, staring up at the elevator’s ceiling. “Come to think of it, _I_ live in terror of Bebe’s dad.”  
“ _Your_ dad’s scared of _Bebe’s_ dad?” Tweek’s met Bebe’s dad by now, and the man didn’t exactly inspire terror. “Can’t they like, bond over having glasses or something?”  
Henrietta snorts, which is nice; but Clyde doesn’t seem to find it funny at all. Just then, the lift dings, and the doors slide open. Tweek jumps out, and Henrietta follows him in a more sensible tempo.  
“Tweek,” Clyde’s looking at him, very seriously, over the pile of boxes on the trolley as he starts pushing it out, “Dad invited himself, and me, over to their house last year so we could all have a _joint sex talk._ ”  
“WHAT,” Tweek blurts out. Just the thought of his own parents doing something like that to him and Craig… Holy crap, he hopes Mr Donovan’s not been giving them any ideas!  
“Hey,” Henrietta reaches past the stacks to snap her fingers into Clyde’s forehead, “Quit slacking off.”  
It probably doesn’t hurt at all, because Clyde only laughs at her. Considering he’s doing the kind of job people made _horses_ do in the early 20th century, he might as well laugh.  
“Sounds like fun, anyway,” Henrietta drawls, as she leads the way through the shoe store, where Mr Donovan, deep in conversation with a man in blue overalls holding a drill, has already got the front doors open. It’s not like Henrietta does anything to give away how much it hurts her, hearing about stuff like this. But she clearly wants to close off the topic of Bebe and Clyde _doing it,_ as fast as possible. Tweek’s kind of amazed that Clyde can’t tell; but Henrietta’s probably been hiding her crush on him for _years_.  
“I seriously thought Bebe’s dad was gonna _go_ for him,” Clyde’s saying, completely oblivious, as he parks the trolley at the very far end of the store. “Henri, here!” He tosses the keys forward to Henrietta, who starts unlocking that door at the very back. It’s all so practiced between them, like they’ve done this sort of thing a hundred times. Meanwhile, Clyde’s holding his left wrist out at an angle, as he starts stacking boxes up his arm. “Dad was all, “We’d better just face the facts that our children are about to start having _intercourse,_ ” and talking about how he’d rather we do that somewhere safe than in the back of a car! And Bebe’s dad just turned all _red,_ you know?”  
“Jesus.” Tweek decides he might as well try copying Clyde’s method; and puts his wrist into the same L-shape before he begins to pile boxes on there. It’s actually not that hard, once he straightens his elbow and tilts his arm back a little. “And you _didn’t_ jump out the nearest window,” he jokes weakly.  
“Oh, it gets better,” Clyde is saying, “Or worse, depending. I mean, we’d already done it by then. But Bebe was on the pill, ‘cause of her periods. So it’s not like we were being _irresponsible,_ right?”  
“That depends on how old you were,” Henrietta says, though Tweek can tell she doesn’t _really_ want to know.  
“What, when we first did it?” Clyde shrugs. “Fourteen.”  
“WHAT?” Tweek drops all the shoe boxes on the floor.  
“Okay,” Henrietta says, very calmly, as she crouches next to him and starts picking them up, “That _is_ irresponsible.”  
“Hey!” Clyde manages to look offended for all of five seconds, before he turns around and leads the way through his Dad’s office. Doesn’t look like anything got damaged in here either; even though this room’s right next to the store itself. “Anyway, what happened was, Mrs Stevens and my Dad started talking about, uh, birth control? And then I went, like an idiot, “But Bebe’s already on the pill,” and her dad…” Clyde shudders again, shaking his head. “He just slammed his hand on the table. “How do you know that,” he shouted, and I just about peed myself! Bebe saved my ass though,” Clyde adds, with a fond little smile that he probably isn’t even aware of. “Said she told me herself. “I tell Clyde _everything,_ because he’s my _boyfriend_.” Heh.” Even though his voice is like, ten times deeper than hers, Clyde does a surprisingly accurate impression of Bebe – and not in a mean way, not at all. More like he’s just spent so much time with Bebe that he just _knows_ what she sounds like. “So thanks to Bebe, Dad and I left their house in one piece,” Clyde goes on, “And I _swear_ Dad hasn’t been back in there since!” Clyde laughs, and Tweek hesitantly joins in. Finally, Henrietta shakes her head and laughs a little, too, though it must be killing her on the inside. 

Tweek and Clyde spend the next twenty, thirty minutes maybe, sorting the ladies’ sneakers from the men’s sneakers. Henrietta just scraped all the boxes off of the hand-tuck at the far end of one shelf before she went back outside to wait for Token and his dad, who are bringing a car-load each. So the two of them sit down on the floor; opening boxes and calling out shoe sizes. Like they’re playing sneaker bingo.  
“All these boxes look – ngh – the same,” Tweek complains, opening another box to check. Nike Air with a pink trim, so it’s a women’s… Tweek lifts the shoe. A women’s size 6. Right. But the outside of the box says “Ladies Purple Size 9”. “Gah!”  
“Hey,” Clyde looks up from the row of open shoe boxes he’s got lined up in front of him, “I’ve got an idea. Wanna just unbox _all_ the pairs, and line ’em up?”  
Tweek takes one look at the sea of shoe boxes surrounding the two them, and swallows. “I don’t know… Would we even have the space?”  
Clyde makes a face. “Guess not, huh? Right, so I need a Nike Air, purple ladies’ size _five_ box…”  
“Gah! I’ve got that, but size _nine!_ ” The whole thing suddenly seems completely futile. Tweek knows that every day they’re not trading, Mr Donovan and his store are losing money – he knows that. But opening this place back up “sometime tomorrow” is starting to look downright impossible.  
Tweek closes his eyes for a second. Now that he’s alone with Clyde, he _has_ to try again. “Clyde, listen,” he begins, winding a white shoelace around his finger. “Remember back at the hospital, when Token thought I was crazy?”  
Clyde sighs. “Tweek, if this is about McCormick –”  
“When stuff started floating in the air,” Tweek cuts him off, “And I said Craig was the one doing it, _you_ were the only one who believed me! So if I can _prove_ –?”  
“Tweek!” Clyde looks like he surprised _himself_ by raising his voice. His brown eyes drill into Tweek’s eyes for a second, before he lowers his gaze. “I’ve always believed,” he swallows, “That human beings have a soul. Okay? So that wasn’t like, the biggest leap for me to take. But people coming back from the dead…”  
“Why’s _that_ any different?!” Tweek’s the one raising his voice now, and he smacks the stack of boxed sneakers in front of him for emphasis. “I’ve got proof! You _wrote_ to me that day, on the back of Bebe’s letter! That I shouldn’t _blame_ myself because McCormick –”  
“Don’t,” Clyde snaps, and for a second, Tweek could almost think he’s angry. But no – he’s scared, isn’t he. “Don’t say he killed himself, because he never did. Because he’s alive _now,_ and people don’t just come back from the dead, Tweek!”  
“Oh right, I get it now.” Clyde may not be angry, but Tweek sure is. Still holding that damn shoe-box, he spreads his hands, “It’s because of your mom, right?” It _always_ comes back to Clyde’s mom. “You just can’t wrap your little _mind_ around this, because then you’ll _have_ to consider the next question in line – right? The really, really obvious one?”  
“I thought you told me I wasn’t stupid,” Clyde mutters, ducking his head.  
“Goddamn it, you’re not,” Tweek shouts, and he suddenly realizes he’s ripped the lid right off the Ladies Size Nine shoebox. When did that happen? “But I _know_ why you’re too scared to see the truth,” he goes on, too worked-up to consider, or care, how mean he’s being, “Because if Kenny McCormick could die and come back to life – _why couldn’t your mom?!_ ”  
Silence stretches out between them, until Clyde finally says, “I think coming off you meds might’ve been a mistake.”  
Those words are like a slap in the face. Tweek climbs to his feet, all shaky and dizzy. Has he ever felt so betrayed in his _life?_ “What happened to, to “knowing in your heart” that I’m not crazy?!”  
Clyde gets up too now, and holds his hand out, palm flat. _Stop_. “I never said you were cra– ”  
“Oh, so I’m just delusional?! Or I’m making all this up because, because I’m _bored?!_ ” And there go his hands again, up into his hair, tug, tug, tugging. “Or because I want attention,” Tweek goes on, taking a savage satisfaction in how Clyde is flinching, “Or some bullshit like that?!”  
“Tweek, _no_.” Clyde’s big hands close around Tweek’s wrists, so gently and carefully. “I just want to help you, can’t you _tell?_ ”  
He knows exactly why Clyde’s so worried, of course. Clyde watched his own mom unravel, back when he was too young to do anything about it. He’s terrified Tweek will end up just like her – and Tweek knows that. But he’s so _sick_ of it all, and all he wants to do is _break_ something. Destroy something. And it doesn’t even need to be a physical something; it can be something more… conceptual. Like a friendship, for instance.  
“Just because your _mom_ went off the deep end, doesn’t mean _I_ will,” Tweek screams, aiming his barb right where he knows it’ll hurt the most. “Oh, and can’t _you_ tell Henrietta’s in love with you?”  
There is no sound. It’s like all the sounds have been sucked out of the world. Time has slowed down, too, so that Tweek can watch every muscle on Clyde’s face move in complete silence, and see the _exact_ moment that understanding dawns. Tweek can almost _feel_ his own mind slide and split in two – one half screaming, WHAT HAVE YOU DONE, because Clyde’s easygoing friendship with Henrietta will never be the same again after this. And the other half, the angry, venomous half, just brimming with twisted satisfaction.  
There is a dull thud, from somewhere behind him, and that makes no sense. Tweek knows for sure they’re alone in here. His body’s all sluggish and hard to move, like he’s stuck in quicksand. Just lifting one foot feels like it takes an hour. But he manages to turn around somehow, and there she is. Henrietta. She’s come in from the staff room, and of course she heard. Why else would there be a pile of jumbled-up shoeboxes at her feet? She isn’t even angry; Tweek’s never _seen_ that look on her face before.  
“Henrietta?” It’s like Clyde’s just seen her, truly seen her, for the first time in his life.  
Henrietta slowly starts to shake her head, then faster and faster, while she backs away towards the staff room door. Her mascara is melting, turning her tears black – so Goth, right? – and even though she’s a _girl,_ and the two of them couldn’t be more different, it’s suddenly like looking in a mirror.  
_I_ did that, Tweek thinks, as he returns fully to himself, I just did exactly what McCormick used to do to _me_.  
It’s the truth, and it makes him want to vomit. No apology could ever _begin_ to fix this. But he’s lucky, in his own messed-up way, that Mr Donovan’s store is circular. That the door to his little office can be unlocked from the _inside_. So Tweek runs right past Clyde, through break room and the office, hands shaking as he wrestles with the lock – come on, come _on,_ – even if nobody actually tries to stop him. Why _would_ they try to stop a hateful creature like him? It’s all over, and it was probably the best friendship he’ll have in his _life_. No more hugs that lift him off the ground, no more sleepovers on each other’s floor, no more cups of Dutch hot chocolate brewed late at night. No more trips to the IHOP or late-night drives with jazz on the radio in Token’s car either; because Token won’t want to stay friends with him, not after _this_. No more school paper; Tweek should probably do the decent thing and resign before Jimmy has to kick him out. No more exchanging letters and secrets with Bebe, and maybe Nicole will ask for those coasters back, the ones she made him for his birthday?  
Tweek runs out through the main shop, ignoring the confused shouts that follow him, shaking off the hands that grab at his arms. There are no thoughts in his head, other than this one: Get out.  
So out he goes, out into the mall proper, running along the promenade until he finds an escalator that goes down. Tweek can’t even stand still on it, he runs down all the steps, gasping and sobbing. His vision’s all blurry, but somehow, he finds his way down, and out. Out into the piercing November cold; and only now does Tweek realize that his coat is still hanging from a peg in the staff room. At least his wallet’s still in his back pocket, so he’s got his bus pass, and Tweek stumbles dizzily towards the first bus he sees. It doesn’t wait for him though, the doors close and the bus drives off while he’s still on the other side of the road. Sure, it’s exactly what he deserves, but he can’t wait around for the next bus. Because what if someone; anyone, decides to come after him? So Tweek starts to run – at least that’ll warm him back up, right? If he just sticks to the sidewalk along the main road… The guilt sits in his stomach like poison, makes every running step echo with the words _Your fault, your fault, your fault_.  
His feet take him to Tweak Bros, past the shuttered store-front of the Photo Dojo and the clouds of popcorn smell coming out of the Bijou. Where else _can_ he run, but to the coffee shop? It’s where he used to hide before he _had_ any friends, so it’s the only place he can go, now that he’s thrown his friends away. Tweek wrenches the door open, making the bell slap against the glass. With a strange, dream-like clarity, he registers that Sharona’s back; sharing a table with Mr Henderson, who’s got her baby propped up on his lap. He sees Bryan manning the counter, and turning around from the coffee machine. Bryan’s mouth moves as he asks a question, but how could Tweek hear _anything_ above the piping sound of his own breathing? He runs through the shop on shaking legs, throws his bodyweight against the back door to open it, and staggers into the staff room.  
Mom’s got her back to him, as she crouches by the oven to pull out what looks like a tray of cookies. She puts the tray down on the top of the stove, balanced on top of two cork pads, before she turns around. “Tweek,” she says, as her eyes widen and her smile disappears. She opens her arms wide, with the oven mittens still on her hands. “Tweek, what happened?”  
“I ruined _everything,_ ” Tweek sobs, and throws his arms around her, burying his face in Mom’s shoulder while he cries and cries. 

After Mom’s made him sit on the floor with her and breathe deep into his stomach until his heartbeat’s slowed down to almost normal, Tweek starts begging her to cut his hair.  
“But, why,” she asks, yanking a piece of kitchen paper off the roll and pressing it into his hands. “Here, blow your nose.”  
“So, so I won’t have anything to _pull_ on,” Tweek hiccups, before he noisily blows his nose.  
“Don’t be silly. Didn’t what’s-her-name give you a haircut _especially_ for that Star Wars thing?”  
“Star _Trek,_ Mom,” Tweek mutters, stuffing the paper into his pocket. “And, and it’s not like they’d still want me to _go_ with them. Not after what I did.”  
“So tell me,” Mom sits back on her heels, folding her arms; “What did you _do_ that was so bad?”  
But Tweek only shakes his head. He can’t tell her he got mad at Clyde for saying he shouldn’t have come off his meds; because then Mom’ll want to know _why_ Clyde said it, and… And Tweek can’t worry her like that, not again.  
“Come on,” Mom presses her forehead against his, so the tips of their noses touch, like an Eskimo kiss. “You know you can tell me anything.”  
Tweek chokes back a sob. “You remember those unforgivable curses? In Harry Potter? That’s basically what I did. Not that I killed anyone,” he hastily adds, before his eyes start stinging again.  
“Tweek, shh.” Mom wraps her arms around his head, rocks him from side to side while he sobs into her apron. “You’ll never know if something’s unforgivable,” she says, “Until you tell them you’re sorry.”  
“It’s, it’s too late for that,” Tweek hiccups, as he starts to pull away. Scrubbing his sleeve across his eyes. He’ll have to get the bus to school tomorrow. He won’t have anyone to sit with during lunch. And the guys will all look at him the way they used to look at _Cartman._ “Can, can I just stay in here a while,” he asks. He doesn’t quite add, “and hide”, but then, he doesn’t need to.  
“As long as you do _two_ things,” Mom holds up her index finger. “One, you’re going to eat one of these cookies I just baked, and two,” up comes her middle finger, “You’re going to call Craig. Deal?”  
“But Mom, I can’t tell him about… About…”  
“I honestly don’t care _what_ you tell him,” Mom fixes Tweek with a hard stare, “As long as you stay on the phone with him until you feel better. Isn’t that what boyfriends are _for?_ ”

There’s this huge, black-and-brown sweater that Dad’s always referred to as the Family Cardigan. It sort of floats around their house, and sometimes around Tweak Bros, and they all take turns wearing it depending on who’s feeling cold. Mom apparently bought it at a thrift store, before Tweek was even born. She has her own name for it – the Largest Sweater of Life. It’s almost like a coat on her; and on Tweek, too – though he’s not swimming in it _quite_ as much anymore. That’s what Mom makes him put on, as soon as she’s convince him to get up off the floor and have a cookie with her at the back counter. Not regular chocolate chip cookies either; Mom put dried cranberries and white chocolate chips in the dough. They have them with a cup of coffee, of course, which also helps warm Tweek back up. His heartbeat’s almost back to normal by the time Mom’s slipped plastic gloves on and transferred the remaining cookies onto a dinner plate. When he gets up to hold the door open for her, he notices how he’s even _breathing_ normally now.  
“Now call Craig,” Mom says, giving him a meaningful glance before she disappears out into the shop.  
Tweek pulls his phone out, and swallows when he sees there’s not just a missed call from Clyde, but also a text message. No _way_ is he opening that! Just thinking about it makes his pulse speed back up. He quickly swipes through his contacts for Craig’s number, and sips his tartan mug while it rings and rings on the other end. Maybe Craig already knows? Maybe he knows, and he doesn’t _want_ to talk?!  
Tweek’s thumb is hovering above the hang-up button when Craig’s voice suddenly bursts out of the speakers, breathless and tinny. “Hey babe! Sorry, I was in the… tractor?”  
“You were in the shower?” Tweek’s so relieved; he almost starts to cry again. “What, what you said was, uh… It’s this thing farmers drive, instead of a car?” Distantly, he makes a note of how Craig just used the _same_ word for shower as when he first woke from his coma. Is this the same thing as what makes Craig consistently get Clyde’s name wrong? But no, he doesn’t want to think about Clyde now.  
“Shit, like a combine harvester,” Craig says, sounding equal parts fed up and confused.  
“No, I’ll…” Tears are starting to roll down his cheeks again, but Tweek figures he can _probably_ manage to sound more or less normal. “I’ll send you a picture, just wait a second.” It’s the fastest image search in the world, Tweek literally picks the first picture of a tractor that comes up in his phone browser and forwards it to Craig, never mind that he hasn’t logged into the Tweak Bros wifi yet. He can hear Craig swearing quietly on the other end, which is kind of cute, and totally worth spending his data on.  
But then, Craig says, “Honey, are you okay?” and all his self-control goes out the window. Poor Craig has to just listen to Tweek bawl for at least two minutes, until he manages to choke out, “I had a fight with Clyde.”  
“Okay?” At least Craig doesn’t sound angry, not yet. “He’s not easy to piss off. What happened?”  
“He didn’t _believe_ me,” Tweek hiccups. “Nobody believes me when I say, when I say McCormick killed himself.”  
“Huh? That’s weird,” Craig says, so matter-of-factly that Tweek almost misses it. Almost.  
“What?! What’d you just say?!”  
“You told me yesterday.” Craig’s starting to sound confused. “Right? I said that was a _good_ thing, and you got pissed at me?”  
“Oh, thank _Santa Claus,_ ” Tweek whispers, as he slides off the bar stool.  
“Is _that_ who you worship now,” Craig drawls, and Tweek starts to giggle like an idiot. Slowly, he starts to explain, and Craig doesn’t interrupt him once.  
“So then, when Clyde told me to go back on my meds, I got so mad that I…” Tweek closes his eyes, and swallows. “What I said? It was like an Unforgivable Curse, okay? You’re gonna hate me, Craig.”  
On the other end, Craig snorts. “Not unless you “Avada Kedavra’ed” him in the stockroom, honey,” he drawls, making Tweek laugh again.  
“No, but… I said some stuff about his mom. About how he wouldn’t believe me ‘cause _she_ didn’t “come back from the dead”, or whatever the hell this is. And I said…” Tweek pauses. As for Henrietta liking Clyde… it’s bad enough _Clyde_ found out. Tweek can’t go spreading it around, not even to Craig. Keeping her secret from everyone else… that’s the _least_ Tweek can do. “I said, just because his mom was nuts, that doesn’t make _me_ nuts.” He closes his eyes and braces himself – that was bad enough.  
Tweek wasn’t expecting Craig to laugh. “Are you _serious,_ ” he howls, and Tweek can hear a thumping sound in the background, like Craig is slapping the wall, or a table, maybe, “That’s _it?_ ”  
“It’s not funny, Craig,” Tweek mutters, a little stung.  
“You’re right about that, babe, it’s…” Craig’s clearly struggling to pull himself together, “It’s _hilarious?_ ”  
“Craig, come on…”  
“Tweek,” Craig snaps, “I once told him he was _better off_ with her dead. And he’s _still_ my friend.”  
“Whu…?” Tweek blinks, and clears his throat. “Oh. Well, that’s just cause you’re _you_.”  
Craig snorts. “What’s _that_ supposed to mean? Anyway, how come everyone just forgot? Like, the guys, your mom and dad, _everyone? That’s_ what we need to figure out.”

Normally, the alarms in the Tweaks’ house start going off around six. Sometimes, Mom’s will be set to six-oh-five or even six-fifteen; if she’s hung up her outfit the night before and knows _exactly_ what she’s making for breakfast. Dad’s alarm _always_ goes off at six on the dot; and he can be relied on to come knock on Tweek’s bedroom door if he isn’t downstairs and eating by six-thirty. Tweek’s alarm clock is usually set for six too; and the reason he’s got one instead of using his phone is that some days, his arm will move _for_ him and just throw the damn thing at the far wall. It’s just a little digital thing with no loose, breakable parts aside from the lid; which also folds backwards to create a little stand for the clock to balance on. But somehow, it’s survived four years of this treatment.  
Everyone _always_ gets up around six – that’s why Tweek set his alarm for five am last night. He sits bolt upright in bed on the first bleep, already awake enough to understand that if he throws it at the wall now, he might wake his parents up. And then, this’ll all have been for nothing. So Tweek switches his alarm off instead, like civilized people do, and swings his bare feet over the edge of the bed. He can’t even _think_ about eating without gagging, but at he can probably manage some coffee.  
Tweek gets dressed as fast as he can – last night, he decided to try Mom’s trick, and laid some clothes out across his desk, just to save himself rooting through his drawers. That works out surprisingly well – no hopping around on one foot, searching for a missing sock. Knowing how cold it’ll be out now, he’d also dug out the warmest sweater he owns – it’s a pale grey, and has brown leather patches on the elbows and the flat parts of his shoulders. That goes over his flannel shirt, the green and black buffalo plaid one. And all this, with his black jeans and thick camp socks added into the mix, will help ensure that Tweek doesn’t freeze to death, in the three hours he needs to kill until school starts.  
He packed his bag last night, too – Jesus, if only he could _always_ be this organized – and made sure to leave his keys in the front pocket. Tweek swings the green backpack over his shoulder and walks downstairs as carefully as he can, mindful of every creak. Once he’s in the kitchen, he boils some water in a saucepan – slower than the kettle, but a _lot_ less noisy – and gets the small cafetiere ready, with two scoops of the Colombian blend. Puts his raincoat on while he waits for it to steep, and slips a banana into one pocket as an afterthought. He wrote the note last night, the one he tapes to the inside of the front door before he steps out into the Colorado winter, travel mug in hand. It says, _I didn’t get kidnapped, I just had to leave early,_ and he even drew a smiley face next to his wobbly signature.  
Not even Craig knows what he’s up to, because Craig would just have told him he’s being stupid. But this is better. Better than waiting outside Tweak Bros for a navy blue Prius that will never show up. No way is he _walking_ to school though, so Tweek spends some time strolling round the neighbourhood instead. There’s a playground a few blocks down; and he spends a while sitting on the tire swing, sipping his coffee until it just gets way too cold to sit still. Every now and then, Tweek will pull his phone out, and just look at that unopened message from Clyde sitting in his inbox. He really ought to delete the damn thing, just like he ought to delete his Instagram account. On there, his weird photos of shoes in the dishwasher and Mom’s broken bottles of nail polish are interspersed with photos of him with the gang, and even though it makes a lump form in his throat, Tweek can’t help but scroll through and look at them.  
He’s the first person to line up at the bus stop; but then, he is twenty minutes early. Phone in his pocket, ear-buds in, shifting from foot to foot while he blows on his hands. All that planning last night, and Tweek still didn’t remember to pack a pair of gloves – and he owns three pairs! He’s listening to what Mom claims is the world’s most soothing meditation album, but if he’s being honest, the dolphin squeaks start getting on his nerves even before the first track is over. Ugh, screw this. Tweek swipes through his music folders until he finds Power of Love; which he bought and downloaded legally from Amazon late last night – just the one song, but he can play it on repeat. Craig’s song for him; because at least _Craig_ doesn’t hate him.  
Finally, the yellow school bus pulls up. Tweek isn’t alone anymore; but it’s not like anybody _cares_ that he was here first – he gets pushed and jostled away from the entrance until he just gives up, and takes a step to one side. Seems everybody wants a window seat today, huh? As long as he gets on this thing, Tweek doesn’t care where he sits.  
A car horn suddenly cuts through the music, and Tweek whips his head around on pure reflex. And there, right behind the school bus, is Token’s Prius. Probably _very_ illegally parked, not that Token seems to have any intention of cutting the engine and getting out. Just one door pops open – the back door, behind Jimmy’s seat. Oh shit, they’re actually _waiting_ for Tweek to come over there, aren’t they? His throat is starting to close up, and his eyes are starting to sting, but damn it! Tweek isn’t going to cry; he’s going to face this like a man. Or, well, at least he’s going to _try._  
He pulls his ear-buds out while he walks towards Token’s car on shaking legs, just focusing on putting one foot in front of the other. Not fast enough for Jimmy, it seems, because he’s suddenly opened the passenger door and climbed out of his seat. Not using his crutches; just leaning on the door for balance. “Tweek,” he yells, “Hurry up! Before Token gets a t-t-ticket for shitty parking while being b-black!”  
People are staring, of course. They don’t get this kind of entertainment served on a plate every morning, now do they. He might as well get this over with, Tweek decides, as he picks up the pace. He can’t meet Jimmy’s eyes though, as he hurries past him and slides into what's normally Clyde's seat. Clyde’s there too, in the seat behind Token, though Tweek can’t bear to even look in his direction – he knows he’ll start to cry, if he does.  
“Finally,” Token says, and the Prius takes off before Tweek’s had a chance to close the door properly.  
“Hey, listen.” Clyde’s voice is unusually quiet. “Tweek?”  
“Gnk,” Tweek replies, through clenched teeth. Don’t cry, he tells himself. Don’t cry, don’t cry…  
“I just, ah… I just wanted to tell you how sorry I am,” Clyde is saying. “I never should’ve said that stuff about going back on those pills, okay? Token told me how, how dangerous they can be, and –”  
“What?” Tweek finally looks over at Clyde – he has to, because he can’t be hearing this right. “ _You’re_ sorry?! After everything I said, you ought to – are you _crying?!_ ”  
“No,” Clyde lies, acting all offended, before he rubs his sleeve over his eyes. “I mean. Maybe.”  
A quick, crazy burst of laughter forces its way out between Tweek’s lips. Can it really be _this simple?!_ “But,” he says, “But Henrietta…”  
“W-what _about_ Henrietta?” Jimmy’s leaning over the back seat now, curious as always. “She cast a s-spell on you and curse your w-w-wang?”  
“What?! No!”  
“Henrietta and I had a talk.” Clyde doesn’t even _sound_ mad, does he? “We’re cool. I think she might even forgive you, if you ask nicely. You know, like I said in my apology text?”  
For a second, Tweek’s head swims. “Your apology text?”  
“Let me guess,” Token drawls from the driver’s seat. “You were too scared to open that thing, weren’t you?”  
“No,” Tweek says, but it’s pretty obvious to everyone that he’s not exactly telling the truth. “Clyde, I…” Tweek draws a deep breath, and forces himself to look Clyde right in the eyes. “I’m so sorry. I should never have said…”  
“You warned me, remember? That you’d be a little asshole once you came off the pills?” Clyde’s grinning now, and Tweek knows for sure that he’s been forgiven. “You might want to buckle up, though.”  
Oh right – Tweek realizes that he’s not wearing his seat belt – Token could get fined for that too, but.. “Can I have a hug first,” he asks, his voice cracking a little as he scoots over on the middle seat.  
“Dude,” Clyde spreads his arms wide – or rather, as wide as he _can_ spread them without smacking Token across the back of the head – “You can have as many hugs as you want.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now that you've gone through all that, click here to see what a hug from Clyde would look like:
> 
> https://chokico.tumblr.com/post/137989801516/clyde-gives-the-best-hugs
> 
> Who needs Xanax when they have Clyde hugs on tap, am I right?!


	38. Now who's the spaz

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 7K hits?! Thanks so much, you guys!!
> 
> Here's a mildly freaky thing: When I started putting exact dates into the story, I got a calendar and started working out what would happen on what date, and how I could make Tweek's birthday happen on a Saturday. And then I realized that the dates all basically matched the dates of this year (2019 - in case anybody drops by from the future to read this. GREETINGS, TIME TRAVELER!) and that includes the date I picked for Thanksgiving. FREAKY. And if you thought Tweek and Craig getting Chinese food was cringe-inducing, well. You haven't seen Thanksgiving at Craig's house yet.
> 
> PS: This chapter contains a reference to my other fic, that's basically back story on how the Tweaks got together and had Tweek - it's not necessary to have read it to enjoy this chapter, but if you want a more in-depth look at their back story, that fic's sitting there under my profile.
> 
> PPS: We have a new FAN ART! Of a scene from this very chapter! It's here: https://www.instagram.com/p/B3lCvMop2Ts/?hl=en  
> Either click the link right now for a very confusing spoiler, or click it after you've read the thing and go "Ahhh!"

So _first,_ the poor Lollipop Buddha lost its fedora, which Dad then replaced with Tweek’s red childhood baseball cap. And then of course, Dad whipped the baseball cap off so Mrs Black wouldn’t see – Mr Black did see it, but all he did was snicker and say, “Nice hat.” Unfortunately Dad forgot to take the baseball cap out of his back pocket before he tossed his pants in the wash, and the old thing just disintegrated on the spin cycle. After that, the fedora went back on, only for Dad to swap it out with Mom’s big floppy straw hat. If that statue head were actually sentient, Tweek figures it would have a really big identity crisis by now. But Dad needs the fedora today. The last thing they want to do is turn up at the Tuckers’ looking like a bunch of hippie slobs. So this morning, Dad unwrapped Tweek’s black suit and his own grey suit from their plastic protector bags, and hung them up in the bathroom after Mom was done washing her hair.  
Thanksgiving at Tweak Bros is usually quiet, after the morning rush. That’s probably why his parents just left Tweek to wake up on his own. They only work from eight until twelve-thirty on Thanksgiving anyway; it’s just not worth keeping the shop open after that. If anybody wants coffee to make it through their drive home, wherever home might be, they won’t be leaving South Park after midday. Tweek sleeps in until almost nine o’clock, when he rolls out of bed, sees the suits hanging from the shower walls, and groans.  
Mom always tells him he looks good in that suit; but Tweek knows she’s lying; he looks like a ferret wearing human clothes. “Goddamn it,” he mutters, pushing the suit on the hanger so it swings from side to side over the bathtub, like a pendulum. He’ll even have to wear the damn thing two days in a row, since the three of them are due in court tomorrow. For Eric Cartman’s preliminary hearing – not that Tweek really wants to think about that right now.  
Tweek yawns, and pads downstairs in search of coffee. There’s a letter from Craig on the doormat; and Tweek suddenly remembers that it was Craig’s turn to write back – sweet! He crouches to pick it up, and that’s when he sees the note taped to the inside of the front door with Mom’s mint-green masking tape. It says, _We didn’t get kidnapped, we just went to work,_ in Dad’s handwriting. Underneath that, Mom’s managed to squeeze in _Maybe I’d rather get kidnapped…_ in tiny, tiny writing. Tweek snorts.  
In theory, he could just throw some clothes on and get the bus out to Craig’s house. Just so he can be there to welcome Craig back for his day visit; Tweek wouldn’t even need to come inside if the Tuckers don’t want him to. But then there’s the Arrangement to consider. Because Mrs Tucker had decided that Craig shouldn’t have too many people there at once, so the morning’s reserved for Jimmy and Token. Clyde, of course, left for Boulder with his dad after school yesterday, hoping to beat the rush. They’ll be staying with Mr Donovan’s parents until Saturday; when Clyde’s getting dropped off in Denver for the Star Trek thing. He wasn’t exactly happy about missing out on some quality Craig-time; but it’s not like he was jealous, either. “Craig’s gonna _love_ having you over,” Clyde had said to Tweek, standing in the door of Tweak Bros with his duffel slung over his shoulder. Fresh out of football practice, grinning like he didn’t even _remember_ the shit Tweek pulled on Tuesday afternoon. And speaking of that…  
Mug in hand, Tweek shuffles into the living room, to check on Henrietta’s roses. During lunch yesterday, he’d frantically asked Nicole and Bebe for advice on how to apologize to girls. And _after_ they’d stopped laughing at him, Nicole had suggested flowers. “There’s a reason it works in all the movies, right,” she’d said, with a grin and a little shrug.  
“Just don’t do what Clyde would do,” Bebe had jabbed Clyde gently with her elbow, “And yank ‘em straight out of someone’s garden. Or if you _do,_ then at least trim off the roots first?”  
“Hey,” Clyde had protested, “That was a special occasion! I was _proposing_ to you!”  
Apparently the rest of the gang have all seen the actual photos of this. They all went from zero to slapping the table and howling, and Tweek had felt a little bit left out. “I’ll… show you sometime,” Bebe had promised him, wheezing and fanning herself with her hand.  
Then Token, perceptive as always, had asked if Tweek was apologizing to Henrietta. “What? She was ten times nastier than usual, when Dad and I dropped the shoes off. And you’d just mysteriously gone missing.”  
“Yeah,” Jimmy had chimed in, “So even if you hadn’t m-mentioned her cursing your _wang_ in the car…”  
“She never cursed my…Gah!”  
Somehow, the silliness had turned into brainstorming; and Tweek can’t even remember who’d suggested roses. But Jimmy was the one who’d said he should get her black ones, since that’d be the most Goth gesture ever; and when Tweek had wailed that black roses don’t exactly occur in nature and wind up in the flower section of Trader Joe’s; Nicole had said, “So? Just spray-paint them.”  
Tweek would have told her that’s the most insane thing he’s ever heard; except of course he can never forget hearing McCormick’s voice over the phone, that time he straddled Craig’s chest and held a knife to his throat. So instead, he’d shut up and listened while Nicole showed him a couple of Pinterest tutorials on her phone, and told him he could borrow her glue gun that evening. “There’s this really neat hobby store at the mall,” she’d told him, “On minus one? They’ve got this huge wall of just spray paint; they’re bound to have black.”  
“We’d love to go shopping with you and like, “spend girl time” with our new gay bestie,” Bebe had drawled, doing air quotes with her fingers, “And just, like, live the cliché? But we’ve got cheerleading practice, so…” At that point, Tweek had flipped her over on the bench, and tickled her until Bebe screamed for mercy. People all over the cafeteria had turned to stare at them, but Tweek had been having way too much fun to care.  
So Tweek had snuck out of the school paper early to go get supplies; black spray paint, purple glitter (since Henrietta’s nail polish had that purple shimmer to it, Tweek had figured she must like purple) and a packet of glue sticks, since Nicole couldn’t remember how many she had left. And true to their word, the two girls showed up at Tweak Bros that afternoon to help. The three of them had gone out behind the coffee shop, and spread out a newspaper on the ground. Tweek shook the spray can for exactly sixty seconds; then Nicole had demonstrated how to hold a rose at arm’s length to spray it, while Bebe oohed and ah’ed about how good Nicole was at this sort of thing. They’d all taken turns with the spray-painting; _and_ with using the glue-gun afterwards. At least they’d been able to do _that_ inside, since it was starting to get pretty cold. They’d shook out the whole tub of purple glitter on a little Tweak Bros plate, and then sort of dipped the roses in it. Since they’d only put glue on the edges of the petals, there was even some glitter left over when they were done. Somehow, a single shoebox had been left behind in the back room, folded flat and squeezed into the narrow gap between the fridge and the end of the counter – perfect for transporting the roses back home in. Bebe even gave him a whole bunch of pink tissue paper that she’d been saving. For some reason, the underwear store she likes gives it out for free, which is nuts but awesome. They’d scrunched it all up and stuffed it in the shoebox, as padding, before putting the roses in.  
And here they are; his handmade apology gift. Tweek has a sip of coffee, and wonders if he should dress all in black too. Just to, well, ram it home how sorry he is, and how Goth he’s willing to be to get the point across? It’s not like he even _owns_ a black sweater… but then, Dad does. It’ll be so big on him, it won’t matter what kind of shirt Tweek’s wearing underneath, and his black jeans from yesterday _are_ still reasonably clean… Or would it look like he’s making _fun_ of her? Tweek grunts out loud in frustration. Apologies are so damn _hard,_ and he needs to get this one _right!_

He’s not going to read Craig’s letter until he’d handed the roses over. That’s going to be his reward. Tweek’s been doing the best he can to just sit _still_ on the bus like a normal human being, not in the least because he ends up having to share a seat and keep the box of roses on his lap. But damn, his right leg has started twitching steadily, up and down, making the shoebox bop up and down. The lady sitting next to him doesn’t exactly seem impressed; she’s trying to read an actual book, and Tweek realizes with a start that she’s reading Moby Dick! What are the odds, that someone would actually read this thing for _fun?_ Tweek hasn’t even managed to finish the audio book yet, and the essay’s due at the end of next week! And now he’s worried enough about seeing Henrietta again that he’s _seconds_ from striking up a conversation with this poor, random lady, who clearly just wants to be left alone to _somehow_ enjoy Moby Dick. Tweek winds up getting off one stop early, just to spare himself the embarrassment – and to walk off some of that nervous energy.  
When he’s at the bottom end of Craig’s street, and can just see the Biggles’ blue house with the hearse parked outside the garage, Tweek slips behind the Valmers’ hedge. Carefully, he puts the shoebox down on the ground. With hands that shake more than usual, he pulls the little jar from his coat pocket and carefully opens it. Then he sprinkles the remaining purple glitter over the black roses, holding them over the box so he won’t leave a mess behind, before he shoves the whole thing into the Valmer’s recycling bin. Holding the roses out at arm’s length – it’s not like Tweek wants to be covered in purple glitter, either – he walks past Jimmy’s house and up to Henrietta’s with slow, deliberate steps. Deep, deep breaths, before he reaches out and presses the doorbell – and jumps back with a little yelp, because _damn,_ that’s loud!  
There’s some thumping – somebody running downstairs? – before the door’s pulled open. “Hey,” Bradley Biggle says, grinning from ear to ear. “You’re here to see Henrietta, right?”  
“Uh… W-what?” What _is_ this guy, some kind of alien?! An alien with mind-reading powers? Or is this all some sort of surveillance conspiracy?!  
“Jimmy may have warned me.” Bradley winks. He’s wearing blue sweatpants and a washed-out Superman T-shirt, with the “S” logo printed across his scrawny chest. “And he _may_ have texted me when he saw you from his bathroom window.”  
“Hah! So it _is_ a conspiracy,” Tweek says, and then slaps his free hand over his mouth while Bradley starts to laugh.  
“Sorry, dude.” Bradley sounds completely unrepentant, though. “You’d better come upstairs,” he goes on, and takes a step back so Tweek can squeeze past him, holding the roses up above his head so they won’t get damaged. “The bride of Satan doesn’t come downstairs for just anybody. I _mean,_ ” Bradley gives Tweek a look that says he’s twigged _exactly_ what’s going on, “If it was Clyde? That’d be a whole other story.”  
“R-right.” Tweek somehow manages to unlace both his shoes one-handed, just in case he needs to pull them on in a hurry and run for his life later. He stacks them under the hallway radiator – might as well try to warm them up a little. He’s an idiot, anyway, for wearing Converse out when there’s frost on the ground. “Um, can I ask you something?”  
Bradley turns around, with one foot on the first stair. “You mean, am _I_ gay? Nope. People just assume I am, maybe ‘cause Esther’s my best friend?”  
“No! I didn’t mean to, I was just wondering,” Tweek babbles, frantically shaking his head, “I mean – ngh – why don’t you like Craig?!” He didn’t mean to growl, or raise his voice, but at least he _finally_ managed to ask.  
“Huh.” Bradley just sits right down on the staircase, resting his elbows on his thighs and folding his hands into a knot. “Okay, so… Craig’s always had this attitude that, if he’s friends with somebody? Then he more or less _owns_ that person. So when we were little, he basically beat me up for playing with Clyde. Like, five times,” Bradley adds, when Tweek can do nothing but gape at him. “And he didn’t see _any problem_ with behaving like that.”  
“Oh.” Tweek blinks at him. _Craig_ did that? The worst thing is; he can almost imagine it. “You, you must’ve all been pretty young though?”  
Bradley shrugs. “It’s not like it stopped when we got older. Craig just found other ways to keep his friends to himself. I’m glad Token was allowed to join their little _clique,_ though.” The way Bradley says the word “clique”, with like, a bucket-full of distaste and an eye-roll he doesn’t even bother trying to hide. “For Clyde’s sake, I mean. It must’ve been exhausting, being Craig’s only friend.”  
“That’s…” Tweek looks over at the wall of family photos, to try and clear his thoughts. There’s something awkward about those pictures; like the one where Henrietta’s in first or second grade, and Bradley looks like he might not have started school yet. Someone’s dressed them both in matching outfits; rolled-up blue jeans and red flannel shirts, with red beanies. But Henrietta’s scowling at the camera, and Bradley seems to be edging away from her. “That wasn’t very nice of him, but –”  
“Oh, it gets better. When Jimmy’s family moved here,” Bradley stares at him until Tweek _has to_ meet his eyes, “It took maybe two, three days before Craig came over and rang our doorbell. Just to tell me, “Jimmy’s _my_ friend, so don’t you _try_ anything.” So yeah,” Bradley shrugs, “I don’t like your boyfriend. But I’ve got no problem with _you_.” With that, he unknots his hands and slaps his knees, before he stands up. “C’mon,” Bradley tosses the words over his shoulder, “The bride of Satan awaits.”  
Tweek giggles weakly. “Is that like, a pet name…?”  
That actually makes Bradley laugh. “You could say that, yeah!”

Bradley knocks, before he opens the door to Henrietta’s bedroom. “You have a guest,” he says, “Who _isn’t_ Goth. Good luck,” he adds, turning to Tweek, before he opens the door all the way and practically shoves him inside.  
Henrietta isn’t alone – Michael’s there, sitting opposite her on the bed with his bad leg stretched out in front of him. Tweek can’t help but stare, though – not at the two Goths, who are wearing their usual all-black Lord Byron meets Dracula stuff; but at Henrietta’s _room_. Because holy shit. She’s painted her walls such a dark shade of navy blue that Tweek thinks it’s black at first. How can she stand to live in a room like that? Her bedspread has a huge skull on it, and there’s an actual pentagram woven into the rug she’s spread out on top of the carpet. She and Michael have been smoking; they’ve got the ashtray balanced between them, dead centre in the nose-hole of the skull.  
“Tweek,” Michael drawls, wincing as he gets up and grabs his cane from the floor, “You shouldn’t have.”  
Huh? _Oh._ Tweek realizes that he’s forgotten to tuck the flowers behind his back, the way guys always _do_ in movies – he’s just holding them out in front of him, like he thinks they can ward off evil or something.  
“Gah! I didn’t,” he babbles, as he scrambles inside the bedroom without an invitation, “They’re not _for_ you! Uh, sorry. Are you okay,” Tweek adds, almost in spite of himself, because Michael’s walking like every single step hurts.  
“It’s this damn cold,” the Goth kid replies, as he hobbles past Tweek and out into the hallway, his cigarette dangling trucker-style between his lips. “Makes my _metal friend_ act up.” He nods down at his bad leg; the one he’s got a steel rod in. “I can feel every damn screw.” The door closes behind him before Tweek has a chance to reply, and he can hear Bradley and Michael’s muffled voices through it, though it’s impossible to make out what they’re saying.  
“So.” Henrietta’s voice is flat and cold. “What do _you_ want.”  
Anxiety spikes, until Tweek’s almost nervous enough to throw up all over the damn roses. “To – gnk – to give you these,” he says, his voice all shrill and scared, as he thrusts the bouquet out in front of him, “And – ngh – I’m sorry! I’m so, so sorry, Henrietta!”  
“Hm.” She doesn’t exactly sound like she’s forgiven him, but why should she? Tweek’s staring firmly at the floor, but the creak of the bedsprings tells him Henrietta’s stood up. “ _He_ was sorry, you know? Clyde,” she adds, and she can’t stop a little bit of warmth from sneaking into her voice when she says his name. “Said he’d never meant to stomp all over my feelings, talking about his damn girlfriend all the time. _Not_ an actual quote, no,” Henrietta drawls, when Tweek can’t help but make a disbelieving sound. “Where the hell did you _find_ these, anyway?” She pulls the bouquet out of his hands, and Tweek lets her.  
“I, uh, made them? Nicole helped me.” Probably best not to mention Bebe; not now. “We used spray paint, so they’re probably not going to last as long as regular roses, but…” Ah shit, he’s babbling, isn’t he? Tweek bites down firmly on his bottom lip, before he can say anything else stupid.  
“Huh. So what’s with the purple?” Henrietta’s voice is still so flat. It’s impossible to tell if she likes them or not.  
“Oh, that’s because… Your nail polish? I thought you might _like_ purple, so that’s why…”  
Finally, Tweek looks up – he _has_ to. Henrietta’s looking down at the flowers, shaking her head. And he’s not imagining it, is he – that’s a smile on her face. “They’re beautiful,” she says. “And I like how you basically had to kill them to make them beautiful. That’s _very_ Goth.”  
“I hadn’t even thought about that.” Tweek can feel a shaky grin start to spread across his face.  
“Maybe it was for the best, anyway.” Henrietta turns her back on him, and goes to sit down on the bed again. “I mean. It was never going to happen. And we’re still friends.” She looks up at Tweek, and it’s such an obvious invitation that he’s crossed the room before he’s even given it a conscious thought.  
“I know what it’s like,” he says, before he can second-guess himself, as he sinks down on the bedspread. “I used to spend every lesson just staring at the back of Craig’s neck, you know? And my parents _wondered_ why my grades were so bad.”  
“Well, yeah, but…” Now Henrietta’s the one biting her lip. “But Craig likes you _back_.”  
Tweek closes his eyes, and gathers up all the courage he can muster. “Henrietta,” he says, “Put the flowers down for a second, okay?”  
“Uh… All right.”  
Henrietta carefully places the roses on the floor, and as soon as she’s sat back down, Tweek throws his arms around her. Her shoulders instantly stiffen up, and she makes a very small, very surprised noise.  
“I’m _so_ sorry,” Tweek whispers, and after a moment or two, he can feel Henrietta relax, as she leans into him and starts to sob. 

On the bus back home, Tweek is finally allowed to rip open the envelope. There are two pieces of paper in there, folded separately, and a single photograph from their skeleton shoot. It’s the weirdest thing to see himself like this – standing on tip-toes, with his arms around the male skeleton’s neck, about to pull it down for a kiss. To see that look on his own face; like he’s lit up from within by love, or something stupid like that. Cheeks burning, he quickly shoves it back inside the envelope. Then he unfolds the piece of paper marked “1”. _Hey Tweek,_ it opens. _I can’t believe I get to see you twice this week. I can't wait to be done with rehab. I’m even starting to miss ~~toaster~~ school_. Ah, Mike’s been correcting it – his handwriting’s nice, but not as nice as Craig’s. _Token called and said you guys are going to court against the fat-ass, and how much his dad is looking forward to it. Don’t be scared, remember: the fat-ass will be way more scared than you are. He’s looking at some serious juvie time after all. Sucks how he’s not 18 yet and they can’t send him to actual ~~hamster~~ prison._ “The fat-ass,” huh? It’s kind of cute, how Craig obviously doesn’t want to risk calling Cartman “Tinkerbell” again, ever. _I hope you like the picture, my grandma printed it for me but I’m giving it to you. (She printed five. You can have the best one.) So now you CAN see yourself._ After that, he’s just signed it with his name – probably didn’t want to write any mushy stuff, since Mike was correcting it. Tweek gets that.  
He unfolds the second page, and his eyes widen when he realizes it’s another poem – in Mike’s handwriting. Mike’s written a paragraph at the top of the page; an explanation of sorts: _Hi Tweek, we had to make so many corrections to this that in the end, it was just easier to have me write it out. Lots of time spent with me trying to figure out what Craig was_ really _trying to say, and then of course we had to adjust some things to make it scan. So I’m sorry I wound up reading something this personal, but I don’t think we could have done it any other way right now. – Mike H._  
It almost feels wrong to read the poem in public, but Tweek just can’t help himself. 

I close my eyes and dream about  
The things I want to do to you  
Like kiss you until you can’t breathe  
While our hearts beat a fierce tattoo

Until you gasp and kiss me back  
Until time stops for you and me  
You are the fire, I’m the wood  
I am the lock, and you’re the key

Snow would fall all around us, but  
The heat that we would generate  
Would melt the snowflakes in the air  
And we would know that this was fate

Because you were the only one  
Who saw me, and could hear my voice  
Held me when I could not be held  
So I am yours, I’ve made my choice.

“Holy shit,” Tweek whispers, folding the paper back up and pressing it against his heart. 

Tweek gets back home just before his parents do; with maybe a half hour’s margin. That gives him time to move the suits, pile his clothes on top of the toilet lid, and have a shower. Maybe they’ll think he stayed in bed until he heard the Datsun pull up outside, but that’s fine. Tweek’s not in a hurry to tell them where he’s been.  
As he steps out of the shower, his phone starts to buzz on top of his jeans. The screen lights up, so he doesn’t even need to touch his phone to see that it’s a private message from Jimmy: _Tweek, my Bro! Feel free to recycle with us anytime!_  
“Asshole,” Tweek snorts; shaking his head. He grabs his towel and wraps it around his waist, before he picks his phone up and types, _Shit puns get u banned from tokens car remember,_ and hits “Send”.  
“Hey Tweek,” Dad shouts from downstairs, followed by Mom’s voice, “Did you eat?”  
Tweek stops and thinks about it. He didn’t, did he. Before going to Henrietta’s, he was just too nervous to eat. And afterwards, he was too relieved to even _think_ about food.  
“Sorry,” he shouts back, after he’s opened the bathroom door. “I forgot!”  
Tweek quickly gets dressed again, except for his socks, which are gross enough that he just tosses them through his bedroom door and on the floor. Then he runs into his parents’ bedroom on his bare feet to grab Mom’s hairdryer, which she’s left plugged in on top of the dresser, and sits down on the edge of their bed to blow-dry. He’d normally leave his hair to just dry on its own, but it’s already one-thirty.  
As soon as his hair’s in an acceptable state, Tweek pads downstairs to find that Mom has just finished ironing one shirt for Dad, and one for him. He’s mildly horrified when he realizes she’s picked the shirt Token’s parents gave him for his birthday. It’s a dark emerald green, and apparently it’s actual silk; what if he spills food on it?! That’s _way_ too much pressure, plus Tweek’s not used to wearing something that flashy! He’s just going to feel self-conscious the whole time! But when he tries to explain this to Mom, all she does is shrug and say, “Well, I’m not ironing another shirt for you.”  
“GAH,” Tweek says; throwing his hands up – Mom _knows_ how much he hates ironing.  
“I’m glad we’ve settled that,” Mom says, without looking up. As if he’d actually given her a normal answer. She starts spreading the skirt part of her coffee bean dress across the ironing board. “Now why don’t you go into the kitchen; I made you a sandwich.”  
Tweek growls quietly, but he does what he’s told. He probably _is_ kind of hungry. Should he really eat something this close to dinner, though? Especially since the Tuckers are making such an effort. His resolve crumbles as soon as he sees the sandwich – Mom’s put Quorn slices _and_ cheese on there; there’s even lettuce sticking out between the two pieces of bread. So Tweek gets himself a cup of coffee and starts wolfing it down.  
Dad comes into the kitchen while he’s eating, with an old towel draped over one shoulder and a pair of black dress shoes in each hand. One shoe goes on the towel, and out comes the shoeshine brush. “Tweek,” Dad says, “I don’t want to ruin your good mood, but… Have you thought about court tomorrow?”  
Ugh, if there’s one thing Tweek _doesn’t_ want to think about… “Well, I mean,” he says, as soon as he’s swallowed his last mouthful. “It’s not like it’s going to take all day, right?”  
On the table-top, his phone buzzes. Tweek swipes his thumb across the screen, and sees that Clyde’s just uploaded a picture to the group thread. It’s a picture of a picture – framed and everything – of Clyde and Bebe standing on the front steps of the Stevens’ house. They’re holding a bouquet together – it’s pretty huge, and there are a few different kinds of garden flowers in there. Lilies, anemones, tulips… and a whole bunch of roots underneath, like the bottom of the iceberg that hit the Titanic; with clumps of earth dangling off them. Bebe has already learned to pose nicely for the camera, but there’s nothing studied about Clyde, as he stands there with a huge grin on his dirt-smeared face.  
“What’s so funny,” Dad asks, raising an eyebrow, when Tweek starts to laugh. “Or is it a secret?”  
“No, no,” Tweek assures him, turning his phone around so Dad can see.  
“Oh, wow.” Dad starts to shake his head, “And people say your mother and I hooked up early!”  
More messages tick in, and Tweek soon gets so caught up in reading them that he forgets all about being hungry.  
Clyde: 4 u Tweek, since u never saw my engagement photo before LOL  
Token: Put this on your wedding invitations  
Token: Or re-enact w matching outfit & flowers  
Jimmy: And if you marry someone else, Craig can photoshop HER head on  
Craig: Like hell I can  
Craig: Who framed this shit  
Clyde: Grandparents XD  
Clyde: I challenge you all to send one kiddie photo each  
Clyde: And it can’t be boring  
Token: I nominate Jimmy eating soap  
Jimmy: Later, too busy having fun at Craig’s rn  
Clyde: !!!  
Clyde: BUNCH OF BUTTHEADS AM I RIGHT TWEEK?!  
Token: Yeah, speaking of! Tweek’s still at home, right?  
Jimmy: TWEEK THIS IS GOD  
Jimmy: SEND US A CHILDHOOD PHOTO  
Jimmy: OR I WILL SMITE YOU  
Clyde: Dude! Blasphemy LOL  
Token: Has that ever stopped Jimmy  
Craig: Nope  
That makes Tweek snort out loud, and he’s about to start typing a reply, when Dad says “Eat,” and kicks the underside of his chair.  
“Ow,” Tweek snaps, before he has another bite of his sandwich. “Child abuse,” he grunts, while he’s still chewing.  
“Call social services,” Dad drawls, and swaps the shoe on the table for one of the other ones. Wait, how many of them has he polished by now? Tweek lost track at some point. He really should be polishing his own shoes, but all three of the shoes on the floor look suspiciously shiny.  
“Uh, thanks for that,” Tweek mutters, around a mouthful of bread and vegan ham. Craig has just messaged him on private chat: _Want to bring some over? Then I can help you pick one. And you can pick one for me?_ Huh. While looking at cute photos of little Craig sounds pretty tempting, Tweek’s not exactly keen for Craig, or anyone else, to see pictures of _him_. But wait…  
Dad shrugs his thanks away. “Listen,” he says, “I just… I know you haven’t seen Eric Cartman for a while, and I was thinking it might be a bit overwhelming for you tomorrow. In court, I mean.”  
If he’s being honest with himself, Tweek has sort of been deliberately suppressing that. He knows Cartman’s going to sit there and lie, to try and weasel his way out of trouble and pin everything he’s done on other people. For all Tweek knows, he might try to convince the judge that Clyde’s dad nailed that poor rat to his own front door.  
“Tweek.” Dad’s hand is on his shoulder, giving it a little shake, “C’mon, don’t zone out on me now. I just need you to know there’s nothing to be scared of. All right? He won’t be allowed to go near you.”  
Maybe it’s because he’s eating, but the memory of Cartman’s burger patty in his mouth suddenly hits Tweek like lightening. He can even hear McCormick’s voice, “Hitler was a vegetarian too,” and almost gags on his food for a second. Then he shakes his head and forces himself to swallow. This isn’t meat; this is just a normal sandwich.  
“All right,” Tweek says, and looks Dad right in the eye. “I’ll be okay.”

Craig’s message gave Tweek the _best_ idea. So while he’s supposed to be getting changed upstairs, what he’s actually doing is rifling through the paper in his desk drawer. Where is it, where is it – there! Tweek triumphantly holds up the “Polar Stampede” postcard Dr Hoffman gave him, during his very first session with her. He snaps a quick picture of that and posts it to the group thread, before he starts to type. _Before the age of 8 I was actually just a hairball that ate coffee beans but then one fine day I grew arms and legs and my parents decided to move here and enrol me in school the end_. There! He sends that off, and then throws his phone onto the unmade bed, where it immediately starts buzzing like crazy. But, Tweek’s not planning on reading any more messages until he’s changed and sitting in the car. They’re supposed to be at the Tuckers’ house for five o’clock sharp, after all.

On their way out the door, Dad gets the digital camera out and puts it on the dresser under the mirror, next to the lotus-shaped key dish. “It’s our first time visiting the in-laws, after all,” he grins.  
Tweek stops trying to brush his hair down – of course he hasn’t remembered to brush it since Esther did her thing to it – and folds his arms to glare at Dad. “Don’t call them that,” he says, as seriously as he can manage with a comb dangling from his head. “Please! This is – ngh – stressful enough, okay?”  
“I’ll just add that to your list then, shall I,” Dad says, waggling his eyebrows, while Mom pulls the comb out of Tweek’s hair and tells him to hold still. Mom’s even curled her hair, Tweek realizes, in those downward ringlets she likes to do when she’s going somewhere fancy. Her new half-moon earrings sparkle in the dim hallway light. And in an obvious attempt at matching with his new shirt, Mon’s wearing that dark green blazer she thrifted from Sloppy Seconds last year. Tweek had been with her, looking aimlessly through the racks of the men’s section, just killing time. He still remembers Mom’s squeals of happiness when she’d slipped that thing on and it had fit her perfectly. It’s actual velvet, and it’s from J.Crew – the pockets had even still been sewn shut. Neither of them had understood why somebody would _donate_ something from such a fancy store, and a _brand new_ something at that; but Mom hadn’t been about to turn her nose up at such insane luck. So she’d run right over, frantically waving a twenty under the salesclerk’s nose. Almost like she’d been afraid the guy would change his mind about selling the blazer. Tweek remembers teasing her about it for days afterwards.  
Having his hair brushed for him is weirdly calming, even though Tweek is still pretty anxious about this whole dinner thing. But his hands only shake a little bit, when he pulls the list out of his back pocket.  
“No mentioning any of the following,” he reads out loud, for like the _tenth_ time, because he _has to_ make sure his parents get it. “Giving birth in the car, fertilizing embryos, the Golden Lotus cult, Tricia having eggs, Dad taking LSD _unless they ask,_ ” which they probably won’t, right? “Or _anything_ I did as a baby. _Anything,_ ” he repeats, just to get the point across, while Mom works out a particularly stubborn knot. “And I don’t _care_ how cute you guys think it was, because I might actually _die._ Okay?”  
“Sure,” Dad says breezily, pulling the list out of Tweek’s hands so he can write _Marriage or use of the word “in-laws_ ” at the bottom. “So, that about covers it, right?”  
Tweek can’t help but feel like he’s walking right into a trap, but he can’t think of any other disastrous topics, so he nods and snatches the list back from Dad. His hands shake a little bit when he folds it back up.  
“That’s better,” Mom says, as she puts the comb down on the table. “You look almost… civilized!” She gives Tweek a quick peck on the cheek to show she doesn’t mean it, only of course that leaves some of her lipstick behind on his face. So out comes a paper handkerchief that she spits on, to rub it all off, and then she has to apply a fresh coat of lipstick, and press her lips against the dry part of the tissue to take the excess off, and _then_ she has to check her teeth to make sure she didn’t get any on them…  
_Somehow,_ Tweek stops himself from yanking at his hair. He even keeps the growling to a bare minimum, as he and Dad exchange a _look._ Tweek reminds himself that Dad’s had _years_ more of putting up with this.  
“ _If_ you’re done now, honey,” Dad finally drawls, and Mom hastily steps back, getting into position next to Tweek while Dad sets the timer. He’s wearing his grey fedora, and the nicest tie he owns, the silver one with the little gold flecks in it. Tweek tugs at the plain black tie around his own neck – Dad had to do the knot for him; he’s hopeless at tie-knots even though he _knows_ how to do them.  
Three blinks in rapid succession, as the camera takes three pictures – hopefully Tweek will at least have his eyes open in _one_ of them, never _mind_ not looking like a spaz.  
“All right then,” Dad says, slipping the camera into the pocket of his suit jacket – obviously thinking this occasion is momentous enough to warrant carefully documenting. “Let’s try to get there on time, eh?”

Mr Tucker opens the door. He’s wearing tracksuit pants. He’s also wearing a dark blue sweater with a hole under one armpit. Just a small hole, but still – Tweek can see it clearly, since Mr Tucker froze in place holding the door open. He blinks at them, and says, “Well.” Shakes his head a little, and finally lowers his arm. “You’d better come in.”  
Mom sort of unfreezes, and brings her hand up fast enough that Mr Tucker actually takes a step back, and Dad has to make a grab for the door. “Here,” Mom says, holding out the long, thin bag she brought along, “Malbec! I mean wine! We brought wine!” Her smile is wide and manic, like she would like nothing more than to uncork that wine bottle and chug the whole thing.  
“Uh?” Mr Tucker takes the bag, like his hand is doing it without his brain quite having agreed to it, before he gives a little shake of his head. “Thanks,” he says, like he’s always wondered about the etymology of that word.  
Tweek walks inside first, and wow – did they misread this invite, or what? Most of the Tucker clan is hovering out here in the hallway, all of them dressed in what you might call loungewear, if you were being polite. Craig’s mom has got a huge green sweatshirt on, long enough to almost count as a dress, with black leggings underneath, her long hair piled up in a big, messy knot. And she’s wearing a pair of unicorn slippers, complete with a horn and rainbow mane. It takes real effort for Tweek to close his mouth – he didn’t even know unicorn slippers existed, but Tricia’s there, with matching kiddie-sized unicorn slippers on her feet. Jesus, those things are so hideous, but he just can’t seem to look away! At least Tricia’s eye looks a little better. The swelling’s gone down, so you can _see_ more of her actual eye now.  
That’s when Craig lopes over to pull Tweek into a backwards hug. “You look nice,” he mutters into the curve of Tweek’s neck, hot breath tickling his ear. As always, he’s wearing his IKEA hat, and one of the side tassels rubs against the side of Tweek’s face.  
“Ngh,” Tweek replies, his tongue tying itself in knots, his heart pounding at a hundred beats per second. Craig’s holding him from behind, one long arm stretched over and across Tweek’s chest like a seatbelt, and Tweek’s just about to cover Craig’s hand with his own when there’s a click and a flash. “Gah! Dad!”  
“Richard, give me that,” Mom says, as sternly as she can manage, holding her hand out for the digital camera.  
“What?” Dad may be acting all innocent, but he knows when he’s lost, and the camera disappears inside Mom’s clutch purse.  
“C’mon, honey”, Craig says, jerking his head in the general direction of the living room. Tweek realizes that he’s been holding Stripe in his other hand this whole time. The guinea pig whistles happily when it’s allowed to climb back onto Craig’s left shoulder. Tweek can’t help but notice how Craig’s got both hands into his pockets now – was it Dad making him all self-conscious by taking that damn photo? Or is it Mr Tucker, with that carefully blank look on his face, that makes Craig not want to hold Tweek’s hand?  
“Uh, sure – just let me take my shoes off,” Tweek replies, bending over to undo the laces. His voice has suddenly gone all squeaky and stupid. Shiny black dress shoes won’t exactly go with all the damn unicorn slippers, now will they. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Mom pulling her heels off – the pair that she changed into in the car, since she didn’t seem to think her normal ankle boots were fancy enough. Yeah, right.  
Craig’s in track pants too – black ones, with a black T-shirt that has “ _I hate everyone_ ” tastefully embroidered right above his heart, in white thread. As Tweek follows him inside, he sees how the guinea pig presses its little body against Craig’s neck, and he can hear the chittering little noises it makes. The poor thing must’ve been so lonely, upstairs in its cage, waiting for Craig to come back home.  
“Sir Lancelot!” Craig’s grandma stands up from the corner seat of the L-shaped sofa, hurrying over to give Tweek a hug. Mrs Tucker is wearing something that looks like an extremely fancy knitted pyjama set, in a pale shade of beige; made even fancier by how she’s paired it with what looks like a pair of real diamond earrings. That red-and-grey hair spills all the way down her back, held in place by a sparkly barrette. “It’s so good of you to come,” Mrs Tucker says, holding Tweek at arm’s length and nodding happily to herself, like she thinks he scrubs up nicely. “Now, let me introduce you to _my_ special someone.”  
That’s when Tweek realizes there’s another woman sitting on the sofa – she’s been so quiet; and held so still, that he didn’t even notice she was _there_ when he first walked in. When she stands up, he sees that she’s taller than Mrs Tucker, and very slender. She’s dressed in a pair of those black pants with six gold buttons down the front, and a crisp, short-sleeved white shirt. Her salt-and-pepper hair has been cropped very short. The only accessory she’s wearing is this really cool watch that’s kind of big for a women’s watch, but somehow super classy.  
“Jude Finney,” Mrs Tucker’s girlfriend says, kind of abruptly. She holds out her hand to Tweek, not quite meeting his eyes.  
“Tweek Tweak,” he replies, taking her hand – her grip is cold and clammy, but still very firm. “That’s “EE”, as in “Eek, a spider”, for my first name,” he goes on, “And then “EA”, as in, uh, “Electronic Arts” for my surname. So you basically _pronounce_ them the same, but they’re not _actually_ the same. If that makes sense,” Tweek adds, as he realizes he’s babbling.  
“Oh.” Mrs Finney blinks at him, before she pulls her hand back. “I see.” But she’s not being unfriendly, Tweek’s starting to realize that – she’s just painfully shy.  
“Helen,” Craig’s grandma is saying, pulling Mom into the living-room by one hand, “This is Jude.” The huge smile on her face, the warmth in her voice – how long has Mrs Tucker been secretly longing to introduce this woman to her family?  
“Jude!” Mom’s grinning from ear to ear, “I’m so glad we’re not the only non-Tuckers here!” And then she pulls poor, unsuspecting Mrs Finney into a hug, which she hesitantly returns. “I’m Tweek’s mother, and that’s my husband,” she waves her hand in Dad’s direction, just as he follows Mr Tucker inside – Tweek can just barely hear Dad stiffly turning down the offer of a beer. “Richie, come here! This is Jude, Janet’s girlfriend!”  
While Dad bounds over and starts pumping poor Mrs Finney’s hand, asking her how she prefers her coffee because that’s how _Dad_ makes awkward small talk, Mom goes around hugging everybody else. Even Craig gets a hug from her, to his obvious surprise. Tweek can practically _smell_ it on her, how nervous his mother is.  
“Hey,” Tweek whispers, sidling up to Craig until his hip bumps against Craig’s thigh.  
“Hey,” Craig whispers back, and his hand immediately slips around Tweek’s hand, braiding their fingers together. “I’m sorry, it’s just…”  
“I get it,” Tweek assures him, reaching up to pet Stripe with his free hand. “I like your T-shirt, by the way.”  
That makes Craig grin. “Jimmy got it for me,” he says, “When I turned seventeen.” The oddness of his phrasing makes Tweek jerk his head up sharply – is Craig deliberately avoiding words he might mess up again? That blush on Craig’s face says it all – busted.  
“Craig!” Suddenly Dad’s there, hands jammed into his pockets like he’s had to remind himself that Mom’s already hugged everyone in the room, and it would look even weirder if _he_ started a second round. “You look so much better since the last time I saw you.”  
Tweek blinks – for Dad, this is impressively normal behaviour.  
“Yeah,” Craig mutters, lifting Stripe down from his shoulder and cradling him against his chest. “I guess. Thanks. This is Stripe,” he adds, and shifts his hand off the guinea-pig’s back so Tweek and Dad can pet it. Stripe squeaks loudly in protest.  
“Aw, looks like he’s missed you a lot,” Dad says, holding out his finger for Stripe to sniff.  
Tweek looks up at Craig, frowning. “ _Is_ Stripe a “he”?”  
Craig nods, grinning just a little bit. “But the last Stripe was a she. I can’t believe you never asked,” he goes on, gently jabbing his elbow into Tweek’s side. “About my son.”  
Tweek snorts, loud enough to startle Stripe, before the guinea pig settles down again. It’s letting Dad stroke it now, very carefully, with just two fingers. “You’ll have to show us some guinea pig tricks later,” Dad’s saying, “If he’s up for it, I mean.”  
Craig nods, and his grin gets just a fraction wider. “Stripe’s been known to take bribes,” he drawls. And Stripe obviously knows its name – _his_ name – because he turns away from Dad, who’s been scratching under his chin, and looks up at Craig, whistling.  
“Corruption is everywhere in today’s society,” Mr Tucker says, and Tweek jumps a foot – he didn’t hear Craig’s dad approaching at all, but then he _is_ going barefoot on a very soft carpet. It’s such a weird, stiff joke that Tweek’s not even sure it _is_ a joke. Not until Craig laughs, anyway, and even _he_ seems to be doing it out of a sense of duty.  
“So wait, uh, the last Stripe?” It’s the first thing Tweek can think of asking, now that huge beads of sweat are suddenly rolling down his back, and no doubt staining his fancy new shirt. “How many Stripes have there been?”  
“Four,” Mr Tucker tells him, and has a sip of his beer. “The first one got sick, and we didn’t even realize. The second one, Laura stepped on him by accident, and broke his back. He died on the way to the vet. And then, the third one…” Mr Tucker pauses for another sip, “She was a real escape artist. She was smart enough to unlock her own cage, and then she’d go explore the house. Long story short, _I_ wasn’t expecting a guinea-pig in the garage, so that was it for Stripe number three.”  
“How old were you by then,” Tweek cautiously asks Craig, who shrugs. Like they’re talking about algebra or something, and not his beloved pets at all.  
“Nine, I think? I buried all of them out back,” he adds, jerking his head in what Tweek assumes must be the direction of the garden.  
“It’s a regular guinea-pig graveyard.” Mr Tucker nods to himself. Was that supposed to be a joke, too? Tweek can’t help but think that this is a bit… insensitive. Maybe this is where Craig gets it from, though. That habit he’s picked up, of pretending not to care about stuff.  
Tweek turns his head a little; sees how Mom’s now perched on the couch with Tricia snuggled under her arm, because all little kids seem to love Mom without question.  
“How’s your eye doing, sweetheart,” Mom’s asking, peering at Craig’s little sister. “It looks a _little_ bit better than yesterday?”  
“The frozen bun-thing helped,” Tricia replies, grinning. “Thank you, Mrs Tweak!”  
“That was a scone,” Mom tells her, like she’s about to launch into a fairy tale, “A cranberry scone. Have you never had scones before, Tricia? You can have them with jam and clotted cream, and a cup of Earl Grey tea on the side…”  
“I thought your store only served coffee.” As small talk goes, Mrs Tucker’s even worse at it than her husband – she makes it sound almost like an accusation. Tweek can only pray she’ll never find out about the Costco cinnamon rolls; he can just _see_ her saying, “I thought _all_ your food was baked in the shop.”  
“Oh, that’s just a _rumour,_ ” Dad says, and something in his tone makes Tweek very uneasy. “One of many.” Then Dad smiles brightly at Craig’s mom, only his smile is maybe a little bit too wide. He locks eyes with Mrs Tucker. It looks like she and Dad might be around the same height. Dad might have the advantage, but only _just._ And Mr Tucker, now anxiously passing his beer from one hand to the other, towers over them both, of course. No wonder Craig is so damn tall.  
“We don’t just drink coffee, you know,” Mom says, standing up, quickly and fluidly. Her feet skim across the carpet as she not-quite-runs up to Dad and slips under his arm, forcing him to break eye contact and look at her. “Just ask Roger! He’ll confirm we only have _jasmine tea_ with Chinese takeout. I feel like one of those Santa-elves now,” she adds, giggling a little as she glances over at Tweek. “Don’t you, Tweek?”  
From over on the couch, Janet Tucker laughs, deep and throaty. “You should’ve seen my husband, Helen! He was so tall; we had to put a footstool at the end of the bed! Just for his legs!”  
Mom immediately bursts out laughing – “No way!” and Mr Tucker sheepishly nods and says, “I’ve had to do that too, sometimes. On holiday.” Gradually, things are starting to feel a little less tense.  
“I still remember,” Mrs Tucker suddenly says, “When they had that funeral, next door. All those Dutch people…” She shakes her head at the memory; maybe Mrs Tucker isn’t used to being shorter than anyone but her husband. “I swear the men all had to duck their heads to get inside the church. Maybe even a couple of the women.”  
“Oh,” Dad says, with a worryingly innocent look on his face, “When Roger lost his wife, you mean? _Ow,_ ” he snaps, because Mom has suddenly stepped down hard on his foot.  
“She was my friend, you know,” Craig’s mom says, a little sharply.  
“Anyway,” Mr Tucker puts his arm around his wife and just about yanks her out of the room, “Why don’t we bring the food out now?” 

Mr Tucker opens the bottle of red wine Mom forced on him earlier, to approving noises from his own mother – it seems Craig’s grandma is a Malbec fan. Tweek doesn’t _get_ red wine at all – he’s tried it a couple of times, just a sip from Mom’s glass if his parents are having some at home, and it made the inside of his mouth scrunch up. Not to mention how _bad_ it tastes – it’s even worse than coconut water! Like, like _old sock_ water or something.  
“Can we help,” Mom offers, winding one arm through Dad’s while she slips the other over Tweek’s shoulders. “We’re in the catering industry after all!” The Tweak family, at your service. It’s funny, of course Mom’s shorter than him now, even if it’s not by _that_ much – but Tweek just tends to forget she is.  
“Don’t be silly,” Craig’s mom says, a little forcefully, “You’re our guests, sit down!”  
“Tweek?” He’s so used to Craig using pet names that hearing him say his actual _name_ is almost jarring. “Sit here, okay?” Craig’s already moved behind the table, and is tapping the table-top with his right hand. “I’m not allowed to help either.”  
“Uh, sure?” Tweek suddenly gets it – Craig wants to do the same thing as at the Chinese restaurant; hold hands under the table while they eat. He hurries over, and his parents follow. Mom takes the chair next to his, which puts Dad at the head of the table.  
The Tuckers seem to have put out the family heirloom china or something – all the plates are edged with gold; and so are the serving dishes they start bringing in, down to the gold-rimmed gravy-boat on a gold-rimmed plate. Everything on the table’s set out to match; they’ve even got gold-coloured cutlery laid out; though at least _that_ has to be fairly new. But Tweek can tell the china’s super old, from all the tiny hairline cracks in it; and when Mrs Tucker sets down the bowl of potatoes down right in front of Tweek, she seems to catch his thought exactly. “Janet’s parents got this set for _their_ wedding,” she says, and Tweek instantly sits up straighter. “She insisted that _we_ should have it, after her husband passed away. So it can be passed down in the family.”  
Absolute terror of touching _anything_ floods through Tweek’s entire being, and all he can do is nod. Did Mrs Tucker used to imagine Craig with a _wife,_ sometime in the future, owning this very set of dishes and serving Thanksgiving dinner? His stomach starts to knot itself into a ball.  
“Babe,” Craig whispers, slipping his phone out from a pocket, “You need to see these.” He’s referring to the group chat, of course, where he quickly scrolls down an actual _wall_ of messages – Tweek just manages to read one from Clyde that just says, _I don’t beliiiieve you,_ probably a response to his own supposed childhood photo. “Hah!” Craig suddenly stops scrolling, and holds the phone out to Tweek. “Look at Jimmy!”  
In the photo he’s sent, Jimmy can’t be more than two or three years old. His mouth is wide open, and you can just make out there’s something yellow in there – clearly, the missing piece from the bar of soap he’s holding in his right hand. His face is screwed up in confusion and disgust, like he’s seconds away from bursting into angry tears. One of Jimmy’s parents must have managed to take this _right_ after the realization hit him, that soap isn’t yummy at all. It’s not the _cutest_ thing Tweek’s seen in his life, but it’s definitely shot right up into the top ten. He leans his face into Craig’s shoulder to muffle his laughter.  
“You haven’t seen Token’s yet,” Craig whispers into his hair, his breath pushing Tweek’s newly cut bangs off his forehead. “It’s amazing, hang on…” He takes his phone back, swiping through the chat again until he’s found what he’s looking for. This one’s actually sort of… artistic? It was obviously taken at some zoo or other. Token’s in the foreground, four or five years old, terrified and bawling with his mouth open. Behind him, a giraffe is bending over the fence, its mile-long tongue sticking out and just barely catching the green apple that seems to hover in the air behind Token. He’s captioned it _Shame they couldn’t accept this for my driver’s license,_ which makes Tweek giggle like a dork.  
Mrs Finney, left on her own after Tricia and her grandma both disappear into the kitchen, is hesitantly taking the seat next to Dad’s. “So, um,” small talk is clearly pure torture for Mrs Finney, “Janet told me your house got burgled?” She drops her gaze to the table-top. “I hope they didn’t… take anything important?”  
“No, no,” Dad assures her, grinning as though the whole thing was actually kind of funny, now that he’s had time to process it. “It was just a couple of boys from Tweek’s class, out to scare us.”  
“They just broke some plates, ripped some photos up,” Mom chimes in, smiling, “But they didn’t steal anything!” As if she hadn’t been scared out of her wits at all, walking around their smashed-up house like a shell-shocked zombie.  
Craig nudges Tweek gently, and winks. Of course, none of the grownups here have _any_ idea what _did_ get stolen that day; that the main reason for the break-in wasn’t to frighten their family, but to dig up dirt on Tweek.  
“Actually,” Dad pushes his chair out and stands up, “That reminds me! I’ll be right back!”  
Tweek looks over at Mom, in case she’s got any idea what this is about, but all Mom does is shake her head and shrug.  
“I went digging through our old photos,” Dad’s saying, as he comes back from the hallway waving what looks like a yellow envelope. As he comes closer, Tweek can see that it’s got KODAK printed on it; and Craig immediately perks up. “After the break-in. Figured we might as well put some different ones up, you know?” He puts the envelope down on the table, and Tweek can feel Craig’s arm give an almost involuntary twitch against this own arm, though his expression is still carefully blank. “That’s when I found these,” Dad pulls his chair back out, “And I thought, since we were coming here today, I might as well ask the _real_ photographers if they’re any good.” He opens the envelope, and pulls out a small pile of photos, just five or six.  
Tweek draws a sharp breath through his nose. He’s never seen these before; though he recognizes Mom instantly. She’s wearing her sleeveless wedding dress – the one she cut the bodice off and turned into a skirt that she’s still got, because the dress was second-hand and much too big for her; and the bodice had a wine-stain on it. In all their wedding photos, she’s wearing Dad’s suit jacket while they pose outside. But in the top picture, Mom’s not wearing a jacket at all – she’s lying on the ground, digging her arms into the snow, like she’s wearing the actual snow as a coat. And it _must’ve_ been Dad behind the camera, something in Mom’s gaze tells him that.  
“Oh my,” Mrs Finney says, very quietly, as she pulls the stack out of Dad’s hands. Craig gets up, bracing himself on Tweek’s chair as he walks around him to get a better look. Tweek almost doesn’t know what to do with himself, while Mrs Finney’s slowly leafing through the photos. Of course he’s always _known_ that his parents love each other; he’s always known how babies are made. But Mom is so young in those photos, and the way she’s lying back in a snowdrift like _that’s_ their wedding bed, smiling almost lazily at the camera… Damn.  
“Well,” Mom says, “This is a blast from the past!” She doesn’t seem annoyed at all, even though these photos must be personal as hell. She picks one picture out of the pile; where she’s sitting on the ground with her skirts spread out around her, like they’re about to merge with the snow. The picture’s taken from the side, so you can see Mom’s profile while she’s blowing on the handful of powdery white snow she’s holding up, making some of it float on the air – captured here, forever, before it could fall to the ground. Tweek can see some of the scars on her arms too, but only faintly. Only because he knows to look out for them.  
“Let me see.” Craig’s grandma is suddenly there, hovering at Mrs Finney’s shoulder. She starts to spread the pictures out, moving one of the plates so she can arrange them in different sequences, different positions, and leaving an open space in the middle. “That one you’re holding should go there,” she says, smiling fondly at Mom. “You’re planning on hanging these, right? Though it’s a shame they aren’t a little bigger; A5 maybe… Have you got the film?”  
“We do,” Dad says, nodding eagerly, “It’s at home!”  
“Oh, I don’t know,” Mom mutters, suddenly embarrassed. “This isn't the sort of stuff you just hang up in the hallway…”  
“What’re you talking about Helen,” Dad beams at her; “We’ll put them in the bedroom! You wanted to redecorate there anyway, right?”  
“I can scan them,” Craig says, as he pulls that picture out of Mom’s grip. “And make it look like you’re _wearing_ that?”  
“You mean the snow, right,” Tweek asks, “To make it look like Mom’s wearing the _snow_ as a dress?”  
“Yeah! In Photoshop,” Craig adds, when Tweek’s parents just blink at him. “It would look _so_ damn cool.  
I’ve got a…” he looks at Tweek uncertainly, “A scanner? Yeah, a scanner,” he goes on, when Tweek nods, “Upstairs. So I can –”  
“ _After_ dinner,” Craig’s mother says, as she puts a plate of what Tweek dearly hopes is sliced-up Quorn down in the middle of the table. “Whatever you’re doing, it can wait until after dinner. And you’re not going upstairs by yourself,” she adds, giving Craig a meaningful look as she sits down. “You’re lucky your father caught you.”  
“Ugh, _Mom,_ ” Craig mutters, hunching his shoulders in embarrassment, “It’s not like I even _fell,_ not really…” He sits back down next to Tweek, who chokes down his worry. He’s not going to ask Craig what a halfway fall is, or a fake fall – he’s _not._  
Craig leans in close, and whispers, “I just tripped, okay? Going upstairs.”  
Tweek looks over at him, so close, and feels his face stretch out in a big, relieved grin. “ _Now_ who’s the spaz,” he teases, bumping his shoulder against Craig’s.  
Craig immediately flips him off.  
“Oh, and Craig?” Dad pulls one last photo out of that little plastic folder, and tosses it down on Craig’s plate, “I thought you might get a kick out of this!” Tweek didn’t even notice there was another photo in there, because the back was facing outwards – but right now, that’s the least of his problems!  
“Dad,” he wails, because that’s a picture of Tweek at the age of two, wearing a navy blue sailor suit, complete with a little hat that’s got an anchor on it!  
Craig immediately picks the photo up, holding it between two fingers – well out of reach of Tweek’s flailing arms. “This is so damn cute,” he’s saying, and of _course_ Dad takes that as a cue to say, “That’s what got me a free phone,” and then launch into another damn story _in front of everyone._ Now, even Craig’s parents are coming over to have a look at that picture!  
“Now, my older brother used to have a fish tank,” Dad’s saying, while Tweek buries his face in his hands, “Back when he lived in Fort Collins. We drove down there for a visit, and Tweek was just fascinated by the tropical fish, you know? And Simon had also _just_ bought – my brother, I mean – he’d bought a pair of cordless landline phones. Brand new. So we turned our backs on Tweek for _five_ minutes…”  
“And suddenly, one of the receivers was on the bottom of the fish tank,” Mom chimes in, with a little giggle, “While Tweek was there, dialling on the other one. Trying to _call_ the fish so he could talk to them!”  
“Oh _no,_ ” Craig’s grandma says, and her laugh is deep and throaty.  
“So _then_ what,” Tricia asks, like this is the best bedtime story _ever._  
“Well, we weren’t exactly swimming in cash at the time,” Dad says, as he picks up the thread of the story, “So I told my brother to dig out the receipt, and then I dressed Tweek in the cutest outfit we’d packed for him, which _happened_ to be that sailor suit. Then the two of us went to the store, you know, with the phone in a plastic bag, dripping on the floor when we walked in. And I took Tweek right up to the cash desk, and said, “Now, you tell the nice man what you did.” You should have seen him, explaining to the guy that he only wanted to talk to the fish! He was so adorable, the guy wound up giving us two new handsets for free!”  
“I took the photo just before they left,” Mom adds, “When Tweek still thought he was in _deep_ trouble.”  
Tweek can only hide his face for so long. Cheeks burning, he looks up, and sees that everybody’s laughing. It’s not _fair_. “You _told_ me,” he jabs an accusing finger at Dad, “That you were going to sell me into _slavery_ to pay for – wait, Craig! No!” Because Craig has just snapped a picture of that photo; the click of his phone camera is unmistakeable. “Don’t you _dare,_ ” Tweek yells, making a grab for it, but Craig’s already tossing his phone across the table to his sister.  
“Trish, hit Send,” he yells.  
“Wait, no!”  
“Too late,” Tricia tells him smugly, before she throws the phone back to Craig.  
“Sorry, honey,” he says, throwing his arm around Tweek’s shoulders and pulling him close so he can bump their foreheads together. Though judging by that enormous grin on his face, Craig isn’t sorry at all.  
Tweek can only shake his head and grunt as quietly as he can, while his phone goes crazy in his pocket, just buzzing and buzzing.  
“Right,” Craig’s dad says, “Well.” He pulls out the chair at the far end of the table, putting him almost directly opposite Dad – except that he angles his chair a bit, so they can fit Tricia in there between him and his wife. “We’ve got cranberry sauce and mashed potatoes, and the stuffing’s completely vegetarian, and, uh…”  
“And so’s this, of course,” his wife says, her fingertip hovering just above the plate of what looks like carved ham. “I placed a special order at Wholefoods for this thing, so it better taste good!” She’s smiling when she says that, and Tweek realizes that in her own awkward way, Craig’s mother is trying to be funny. “And of course there’s the gravy, and Brussel sprouts…”  
Meanwhile, Dad’s snatched that damn photo back from Craig’s plate, and is quickly packing the photos away. He slips the KODAK envelope into the pocket of his jacket, which he then drapes over the back of the chair. That’s probably a good idea, Tweek decides, since it’s getting pretty warm in here with so many people – he doesn’t understand how Craig can still wear his hat indoors.  
“Hey,” Craig whispers, nuzzling Tweek’s hair for just a quick second while the adults are all distracted. “Are you okay? I’m sorry about…” He frowns and bites his lip, like he’s looking for the right words but can’t quite find them. “I mean, you were so cute. But I probably shouldn’t have.”  
Tweek closes his eyes for just a second or two. He’s got a choice to make – he can be annoyed about it, or he can choose to look at it as his karma evening the playing field on his behalf. After all, their friends all put themselves out there, uploading some pictures _they_ probably find pretty damn embarrassing, while Tweek just tried to fob them off with a fake picture and a hastily typed joke. And there’s one more thing to put into the equation – he doesn’t _want_ to be annoyed with Craig.  
“It’s fine,” Tweek says, and slips his fingers through Craig’s under the table, giving them a gentle squeeze. “That’s what friends are _for,_ right? For making fun of us.”  
“Among other things,” Craig drawls, but Tweek can see how relieved he is, as he gives Tweek’s fingers a careful squeeze back.


	39. I never asked to be a tree, you know!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there! Nothing much to say, except I'm sorry this chapter took me so long, and oh yeah, WE HAVE FAN ART!! 
> 
> Here's a sweet and sad one from smashedkittkate:  
> https://smashedkittkate.tumblr.com/post/188440671118/ghosting-for-beginners-by-thistle-paw-i-wish-i
> 
> and here's one from sweet_eijiro that was SO NSFW, it can only go in Instagram:  
> https://www.instagram.com/p/B4Ct_Cch8LR/   
> Remember how Jimmy told Tweek he'd had the best dream ever about Tweek's mom? Yeah... XD

At first, the conversation sort of naturally revolves around how good everything is, which is more or less true. It doesn’t come close to that dinner Mrs Valmer made, after Craig first woke up, but then Mrs Valmer is in a whole league of her own. Mr Tucker says how you can’t even taste the difference between “this thing” and real turkey, though from the disbelieving look Tricia shoots him, that probably isn’t quite true. As far as Tweek can tell, it’s tofu-based; but the Tuckers have probably left it in the oven a little too long. Not that he’s about to complain; gravy fixes everything, and the stuffing has this rich and nutty flavour that more than makes up for the fake turkey being a bit dry and tasteless. But the main thing; that they not only made this huge effort and even refrained from making normal turkey for themselves… that’s pretty damn incredible.  
Craig’s mom stood up and served everyone, which is why there are five revolting green things on Tweek’s plate – Brussel sprouts, _ugh_ – but not even that can dent his good mood, because he knows how to swallow them whole. Dad taught him that trick, when Tweek was six, and Grandma had decided he was old enough to at least _try_ eating them, or else. He took Tweek to the grocery store that morning, and bought a bottle of water and a bag of the biggest red grapes they could find; to practice on. “If Colombian drug mules can do this, so can you,” Dad had told him, holding a grape out after he’d rinsed them off with the water. They’d sat in the Horrible Honda dad had back then; Tweek kicking his short legs against the bottom of the passenger seat while he eyed the grape dubiously. “Just swallow it, and hydrochloric acid will take care of the rest!”  
Dad and both his brothers have been doing this since _they_ were kids, though Dad and Uncle Simon always argue over who first came up with the method. The key to not being discovered is to act like what you’re about to do is perfectly normal – and to not have _anything_ else in your mouth except one of the sprouts. Loosen your throat up, swallow it as fast as you can, then wash it down with whatever is in your glass. You’re also allowed to cough once, but _discreetly,_ into your hand, to disguise your natural gag reflexes.  
Mom actually tried it once, on a dare from Uncle Martin, during her very first Thanksgiving dinner with Tweek’s grandparents. Poor Mom couldn’t do it, though – she’d had to run out of the room and hock it back up; prompting family-wide speculation that Dad had got her pregnant.  
Tweek steels himself – he can totally do this! – and shoves a single, hated green ball of nastiness in his mouth. Craig looks at him curiously. There are no Brussel sprouts on Craig’s plate; when his mother was about to put some on there, he drawled “Mom, come _on,_ ” and flipped her off in front of everyone! This didn’t get him sent from the table, or a telling-off; but then Craig’s parents are probably just so happy to have him back home. Tweek meets Craig’s eyes for a second – check this out! – before he closes his eyes, forces his throat to relax, and makes the whole thing go down in one gulp. When he opens his eyes again, Tweek is pleased to note that Craig looks _very_ impressed.  
“So…” Craig’s mom scoots forward on her chair, literally on the edge of her seat, like there’s a question she’s been dying to ask. Tweek has a pretty good idea what that might be; and he's blushing even before she’s started her sentence. “So why did you name your _son_ after the coffee shop?”  
“I didn’t,” Dad tells her, like this should be perfectly obvious to anyone; “He said so himself, it’s spelled differently.”  
Tweek isn’t surprised – for his whole life; Dad has steadfastly refused to explain why he picked that name. But suddenly, Mom lets a brand-new clue drop when she says, “It wasn’t the name we _agreed_ on, mind you. Richard just filled out all the forms while I was unconscious.” And sure, she’s smiling, but she’s giving Dad this really dirty look.  
“Helen threw a _pot-plant_ at me,” Dad says, like he’s still deeply hurt by this sort of behaviour, _seventeen years later_ – although, Dad being Dad, he’s probably kidding. “Lucky for me, I dodged it with my ninja reflexes!”  
“He ducked like a sissy,” Mom drawls, and has a sip of wine. “You should’ve stood there and taken it to the face,” she has another sip, “Like a man.” It’s impossible to tell if Mom’s kidding or not.  
The Tuckers all laugh nervously, except for Craig, who’s gone completely still. His hand tightens around Tweek’s under the table. It’s like Craig senses that more clues are about to drop, clues that Tweek has been waiting his whole life for, and doesn’t want to distract Tweek’s parents by making any noise at all.  
“I should’ve seen it coming,” Mom goes on. “The whole time I was pregnant, he kept rubbing my belly and asking how “Little Tweak” was doing. And I had such a beautiful name picked out, too.”  
That’s when Tweek can’t _not_ ask; “What was it?”  
“Arjuna Indivara,” Mom says, with deep, heartfelt regret. “Isn’t it lovely? In Sanskrit, it means Pure Blue Lotus.”  
Craig’s mother drops her fork. It clangs loudly against the gold-tipped plate, and for a second, that’s the only sound in the whole room. Then, Craig starts laughing, and that sets off a chain reaction around the table, as the whole Tucker family joins in. Mrs Finney just sits there gaping, poor woman, and Tweek doesn’t blame her.  
“Well, come on,” Dad raises his voice to be heard above all the howls and snorts, like it’s very important to him to make this clear, “I’m there holding the whitest, blondest baby in the world, and I’m supposed to name him Arjuna Indivara?! That would’ve been child abuse!”  
And naming me Tweek Tweak _wasn’t,_ Tweek wants to ask; but he can’t seem to summon his voice. It’s never actually occurred to him that his name could’ve been even _worse,_ but holy crap.  
Suddenly, a weird, dorky giggle starts up, and he realizes with a shock that Mrs Finney is completely losing her shit now! Covering her mouth while she laughs, and turning towards Craig’s grandma, her forehead bumping against the side of Mrs Tucker’s head… The whole thing is so sweet that it _almost_ makes up for the embarrassment. Almost.  
“Did you ever, ah, consider,” Mr Tucker is struggling like crazy to talk and not laugh, “Naming him after your father?” He pauses to pretend like he’s clearing his throat, “Or grandfather, maybe?”  
“Nah.” Dad shrugs. “Tweek just felt _right,_ so that’s the name I gave him. And to hell with the consequences,” he adds, leaning over to kiss Mom on the cheek.  
“Richard doesn’t believe in thinking before he acts,” Mom says fondly, digging her elbow into Dad’s side. “Or looking before he leaps, in the case of Launchpad McQuack.”  
Craig’s mom raises an eyebrow. “Launchpad McQuack?” She taps a finger against her lips, “That rings a bell! That was some kind of cartoon, right?”  
“Oh, no! I mean, it was, but,” Dad’s suddenly all flustered, “The one she’s talking about was a _real_ duck. My brother just named him that, because I don’t know. He said we had to name it _something._ ”  
“Richard broke his foot saving that poor thing.” Mom shakes her head a little, as a dreamy look slips across her face. “Jumped off a bridge and everything.”  
“What?” Craig sits bolt upright, yanking hard on Tweek’s hand, not that he seems to realize. “What did you do?” Craig sounds so strict all of a sudden, that Dad actually jerks back from the table.  
“Well, I mean… It was only a _little_ bridge.” This is one of like, a _handful_ of Dad’s stories that Tweek doesn’t mind hearing again. “The summer before my senior year,” he says, “My brothers and I saw this duck who’d got his neck caught up in plastic. We could tell he was having trouble eating, so we set out to catch him, to get the thing off. I swear we tried _everything,_ but talk about an escape artist… I mean,” Dad shrugs, “Being able to fly definitely gave him an unfair advantage.”  
That actually makes Craig snort. His full attention’s on Dad now, so Tweek can study him while he eats; stare his fill at that strong Roman nose, those bottleglass eyes and the lips that are softer than they look.  
“There were these low bridges in the park, maybe _this_ high,” Dad holds his hand over the floor to illustrate, “No railings or anything. And one day, Launchpad swam out _right_ from under the bridge we happened to be crossing. So I jumped off and managed to grab the duck –”  
“ _And_ broke his ankle in two places,” Mom shoots in, raising both her eyebrows like she’s saying, can you believe this guy.  
“Seriously?” Craig’s eyes widen. “You did that for a _duck?_ ”  
“Yup. Six weeks with my foot in a cast,” Dad says, “While everyone from school called me Ace Ventura! And I’m not going to lie and say it didn’t hurt. When my brother took my shoe off afterwards, it hurt so bad that I _puked,_ but…” Dad shrugs again, “But we got that duck to the vet, and that was the main thing. He tagged Launchpad for us; so we could keep track of him, and he lived for _years_ after that. He was still around when Tweek was a baby!”  
It’s a good thing Craig probably doesn’t realize how cute he looks when he smiles. “That’s so damn cool,” he says, and while his voice may still be monotone, Craig’s actually _grinning_ at Dad from across the table.  
“Well,” Mr Tucker says, “You sure must love animals a lot, huh?”  
Tweek is just _waiting_ for Dad to go and ruin everything by saying something like, that’s why I don’t eat ‘em! But what he says instead, _thank god,_ is “Oh yeah. My little brother and I even used to play Animal Man out in the woods! That was a comic book,” he adds, when he’s met with a wall of blank stares. “The main character’s super power was; he could borrow different abilities from animals.”  
“Dad’s making it sound cute,” Tweek pipes up, in the name of honesty, “But it’s really not, okay? It’s terrifying! There’s this bit where he _works out_ he’s a cartoon character, and then he looks _right_ out of the page and says, “I can see you!” And his whole family gets murdered, and then the writer of the comic shows up to tell him why he _did_ it! That thing gave me _nightmares_.” Tweek can sense Craig staring at him, and when he turns around, sure enough – there’s that _look_ on his boyfriend’s face. “Oh Jesus, I just made you want to _read_ it, didn’t I?”  
Craig grins, and leans in close to whisper, “Maybe. How old were you?”  
Tweek can feel himself start to blush. “I think I was eight,” he whispers back. “I had to climb the bookshelf to get ‘em. Dad said I wasn’t supposed to read those comics until I was older, but…”  
Tweek shrugs, and Craig’s grin gets wider. “That only made you want ‘em more, right?”  
“Uh-huh.”  
“What was it _Craig_ used to play,” his grandma suddenly asks, “Out in the forest, with his friends?”  
“Oh, down by Stark’s Pond,” Craig’s mom tells her, as Tweek watches that grin slide right off Craig’s face, to be replaced by a look of absolute horror, “They used to play wizards! From those books, you know? The British ones…” She frowns, like she’s trying to remember the name, but Tweek gets the distinctive feeling that Mrs Tucker is toying with her son.  
“Mom, don’t,” Craig yells, and he sounds more frightened than he did when McCormick was sitting on his chest.  
“…Harry Potter!” Craig’s mother claps her hands together once, her eyes shining as she looks right at Tweek. “Did you used to read those, too?”  
“Um, well,” Tweek can’t hold her gaze for more than a couple of seconds, “I was never really that… into reading? I always have a hard time concentrating, so…” He can feel his cheeks starting to burn. The awful truth is that Mom read the first couple of books out loud to him, as part of his parents’ nightly efforts to make him calm down enough to sleep. Instead of doing stuff like, oh, climb the curtains in his room, for instance. Or building traps for the underpants gnomes out of lego bricks and twine. Only Tweek had thought those books were kind of boring; and Mom had enjoyed them way more than he had.  
“You should have seen them,” Craig’s dad is saying, “Waving their wands that they’d all carved themselves, and doing those English-y accents!” Tweek _has to_ look up, at a Craig who’s blushing more that Tweek has ever seen him blush. “He even stole my laser-pointer, to make it look like his wand could shoot –”  
“Dad,” Craig snaps, and stretches halfway across the table to flip his father off; like he wants nothing more than to ram his middle finger up Mr Tucker’s nostril.  
“Dork,” Tricia says, as she flips Craig off.  
“I think Craig and Token were the most into it,” Mrs Tucker goes on, chuckling, while she casually flips off her little daughter. Jesus, what is _up_ with their family? “I remember Token confiding in me that his Patronus was a lion!” This is met with a chorus of “aww’s” from the adults, and a resigned groan from Craig. He’s slumped back in his seat with his arms folded, while Tricia smirks at him. “Jimmy seemed to have fun, at least,” their mother is saying. “That must’ve been right after the Valmers moved here. I remember his parents were so worried that he’d trip over roots and things in the forest, so we made them come back here before dark. And Clyde was probably more interested in sports, but of course he played along. You should’ve seen them all, wearing _cloaks_ and practicing their _spells_ in the back yard…”  
“We did take some photos,” Mr Tucker says, and pushes his chair back like he’s about to go get them.  
Craig’s fist comes down hard on the table, making the gold-edged china hop and clang. “Dad,” he says, glaring at his father from under the brim of his hat, which he’s pulled down very low, “Seriously.”  
“Oh, but Craig,” Mom gushes, “That’s nothing to be ashamed of! I read all of them, after Tweek lost interest – and I thought they were great! Well, except for the last one,” she adds, her bottom lip twisting, “I kind of threw that one at the wall.”  
Mr Tucker has sat back down now, chuckling to himself, so Craig seems to feel it’s safe to take his eyes off him and look at Mom instead. “When Snape died, right,” he guesses, and Mom nods, blushing a little. Or are her cheeks just starting to get flushed from drinking? Tweek’s been too focused on Craig, and too busy eating, to keep track of how much wine she’s had.  
“First and last time I’ve ever seen her do that.” Dad’s eyes are shining. At least _he’s_ only having ginger beer tonight, since he’ll be driving home – and possibly carrying Mom out to the car. “And the bang woke Tweek up! That scream, I swear it shaved at _least_ a year off my life! Anyway, speaking of playing dress-up…” he leans closer to Mom, “Remember that Christmas play?”  
Mom immediately doubles over, consumed by giggling, and Tweek gets a sinking feeling in his stomach. “Of course,” she snorts, “They must’ve been in that together, right? The third-grade Christmas play?”  
“Christmas play,” Mrs Finney asks, looking like she only spoke up because she felt like she’s been quiet for too long.  
“Oh, right,” Mr Tucker says, “The one where Craig and Token played two of the three wise men! And Clyde was the kind host,” he goes on, frowning, “Jimmy was one of the shepherds, and the Marsh boy played Joseph…” He looks directly at Tweek, who squirms. “But I can’t remember who you were?”  
“Oh, it was the cutest thing,” Mom says, grabbing Mrs Finney’s wrist across the table, like she wants to make absolutely sure the poor woman is paying attention. “That play only had so many speaking roles; but the music teacher was determined to get everyone up on stage, so Tweek got to play a tree! I made his costume.” Thankfully, Mom lets go of Mrs Finney now, so she can gesture with both hands. “We drove out to IKEA, where they sold green felt by the metre, and he wore the brown trousers from his Indiana Jones costume for the tree trunk. And then we glued cotton wool to the felt, to make it look like snow!”  
“She cut a little hole for his face,” Dad chimes in, shaking his head. “It was _so_ damn cute.”  
Tweek clears his throat desperately. “Anyway,” he begins, without even the vaguest idea of what he’s going to say next – not that he needed to have bothered, really, because his parents just talk over him.  
“And then,” Mom says, dropping her voice low, “Came the big night. We managed to get in early, and nab seats on the second row. They had maybe five or six kids playing trees, but we spotted Tweek right away – and not just because of the snow. He was so nervous, he just couldn’t stand still!”  
His cheeks are burning. Tweek actually wants to die now. He grabs Craig’s hand under the table, squeezing it as hard as he dares, while the adults all laugh – quietly for now, but Tweek knows what’s coming.  
“So then the show started,” Dad says, taking over the story from Mom, “And Tweek more or less managed to stay in the same spot, until Mary and Joseph had been let into the stable. Then all of a sudden, he’d just had enough, I guess? So Tweek walked right up to the middle of the stage, and said…” Dad exchanges a quick glance with Mom, who immediately joins in: “I never asked to be a tree, you know! It’s way too much pressure!”  
“Ha! I remember now!” Mr Tucker snorts, as he slaps the table-top. Soon, all the grownups have joined in, even Mrs Finney, though she’s quieter than the others, and still covers her mouth with one hand while she laughs.  
“I remember, too.” Craig leans down, so he can whisper into Tweek’s ear. He’s actually grinning, though at least _he_ doesn’t laugh. Tweek figures he already looks like an idiot, so he might as well bury his face in Craig’s T-shirt, and growl as quietly as he can.  
“Craig wasn’t even _cute,_ ” Craig’s mom says, and Tweek could almost imagine she’s trying to make him feel better. “All he did was rattle off his lines, slam his gift for baby Jesus down on the floor – and then, he tried to walk off! Token had to grab his arm and hold him back!”  
“I don’t remember _that,_ ” Craig drawls, and it could just be Tweek’s imagination. But it definitely feels as though Craig is drawing their attention off of Tweek, and onto himself.  
“One of the,” Mom pants, fanning herself with her hand, “One of the dads, he filmed it! And made a DVD! Mr Stotch, I think? We ordered four copies! So we could… So we could _send…_ ” She gives up, wheezing and dabbing at her eyes.  
“My _parents_ got a copy,” Dad says, tapping the table like he’s doing a tally of where each of those discs went, “My _brothers_ got a copy each,” tap, tap, “And _we_ kept the last one!” Tap. “We should watch it sometime, refresh everyone’s memories.”  
“ _Or_ you could just buy a gun and _shoot_ me,” Tweek mutters, rolling his eyes, and making the grownups laugh some more.  
That’s when Craig suddenly stands up, bracing himself against the table, and asks, “May we be excused?” 

Craig’s dad insists on walking behind him up the stairs, in case he should trip again, even though he’s holding onto the banister and everything. Tweek walks up ahead of them, carrying a squirming Stripe. He’s been up here once, after all, and knows which room is Craig’s.  
“Keep the door open,” Dad yells “helpfully” from downstairs, and when Tweek risks a quick look over his shoulder, Craig’s turned as red as a tomato.  
“Dad,” Craig mutters, “We’re just gonna talk.”  
“All right,” Mr Tucker says, pausing at the top of the stairs as Craig steps onto the landing. “But, ah, maybe do leave the door open. Okay?”  
Craig groans, but he also nods and says “Sure.”  
Mr Tucker just looks at him for a second, before he puts a hand on Craig’s shoulder, squeezing it. Tweek suddenly remembers seeing those two in the hospital gardens, Craig wrapped up in his dad’s oilskin coat, and Mr Tucker saying, “I love _you_.” Then, Craig’s dad walks back downstairs, and Craig slides his arm around Tweek, nuzzling his hair for just a second. They go inside his room, Craig carefully pulling the door _almost_ shut, so there’s just a tiny crack left open. “So,” he says. “What was it you wanted to ask them? The fish,” he adds, when Tweek just shrugs in confusion.  
“Gah! Asshole,” Tweek growls, bumping his head against Craig’s chest – but he can’t stop smiling. “I was gonna ask them what the water tasted like,” he mutters into Craig’s T-shirt, while his boyfriend wraps his arms around him. “And if they were always drinking it.” Stripe takes this opportunity to climb up Tweek’s arm, and hop onto to Craig’s arm from Tweek’s shoulder. “Or if they could choose when to drink and when to stop?”  
Craig hugs Tweek tighter, while he laughs all the way down in his belly. So that makes it the perfect time to as _him,_ “And what was _your_ Patronus, then?”  
The laughter stops, as abruptly as it began. “Guinea pig,” Craig mutters, addressing this remark at the carpet. “Like, a _giant_ guinea pig.”  
Now it’s Tweek’s turn to snort. “That’s adorable.”  
“You shut up,” Craig growls.  
Tweek tilts his chin, “So _shut_ me up.”  
Craig kisses him urgently, hungrily, until Tweek actually has to slide his hands up Craig’s chest and push him away. Just so he can breathe. “You trying to suck out my _soul_ or something,” he jokes weakly, laughing a little to make sure Craig knows he’s kidding.  
And Craig chuckles, deep in his throat. “What can I say,” he drawls, in that nasal voice of his. “You just taste so damn good.”  
The room looks much the same as the last time Tweek was here, except the bedding’s been changed to a set with rockets and UFO’s on it, one corner of the duvet pulled down invitingly. “I get to stay here,” Craig says, reading Tweek’s thoughts. “Just for tonight. They’re picking me up first thing.” He flops down on top of the duvet, before he scoots inwards, cradling Stripe against his chest and leaving plenty of space for Tweek.  
Tweek carefully lies down lies down next to him, resting his head on Craig’s arm. For the first time, he notices the glow stars stuck to the ceiling. “Don’t tell me _you_ used to be afraid of the dark,” he teases.  
“Pfft,” is Craig’s only response, before he turns his face and starts to nudge Tweek’s cheek with his nose. Tweek obligingly shifts over on his side, and they kiss again, a little more gently this time. Just a little.  
“I got your letter,” Tweek murmurs, when they have to come up for air. He can feel Craig instantly tense up. “Your new poem was amazing,” he quickly says, and Craig lets out a deep sigh. “What, you didn’t honestly think I’d _hate_ it, did you?”  
Instead of replying, Craig sits up, sliding his arm out from under Tweek’s neck and placing Stripe on Tweek’s stomach. “Let me show you something,” he says, as he climbs over Tweek to crouch on the floor.  
Craig’s palms and bare feet are flat on the carpet, and he’s leaning forwards, like a runner poised for the starting pistol. Then, Tweek suddenly realizes that his hands aren’t quite touching the ground anymore, and neither are his feet. Craig is floating, rising higher and higher off the floor until he’s maybe a hand’s width above it, before he starts to straighten up. To _stand_ up, while he’s still rising, until Craig’s hovering almost a foot above the ground; hands held out at his sides as if for balance.  
“Holy _shit_.” Tweek’s hand slides up to cover his mouth. He remembers hovering in the air, surrounded by spinning basketballs. And he remembers tumbling to the ground, when Craig’s strength gave out. “Craig, you can’t do that!” Tweek puts Stripe down on the duvet before he stands up, shaking from head to toe. “Get back down here,” he whispers fiercely.  
“But…” Craig’s face falls. “But babe, isn’t it cool?”  
“Cool?!” Tweek is starting to _shake_ with indignant worry. “It’s dangerous, is what it is!” Keeping his voice down is hard, but he somehow manages not to shout, because what if the grownups hear him? And come running upstairs to see what’s going on, and catch Craig _levitating?!_ Tweek points at the carpet with a trembling finger. “Get _down,_ Craig!”  
Shoulders slumping, Craig slowly drifts downwards, and the disappointment just radiates off him. As soon as he’s standing on the floor again, Tweek’s there, hugging him as hard as he can. “You don’t remember,” he says, talking right into Craig’s chest, “But the last time you did something like this, you almost died!”  
“Tweek,” Craig murmurs, as his hand finds its way into Tweek’s hair, “It’s fine, I know what I’m doing now.”  
“Gah!” Hands flailing, Tweek tries to pull free, but Craig’s arms are wrapped too firmly around him. Pinning him in place while he hyperventilates and babbles, “But you had a seizure, your heart almost stopped, and gah! I don’t know what I’d _do_ if you died for _real!_ ”  
“Babe, please just listen to me.” Craig’s mouth is right next to Tweek’s ear, his breath so hot on his cheek. “Back then, I lost control because of how pissed I got.” His left hand is on the small of Tweek’s back, the fingers drawing a circle, again and again, on the silky fabric of his shirt. “Because they were hurting you,” Craig goes on, “And I couldn’t stop them. But do I seem pissed to you now? Or like I’m not in control?”  
Tweek forces himself to think about it, as rationally as he can. “Nnnno,” he grinds out reluctantly. In fact, Craig seemed like he was _completely_ in control, but that’s not _fair_. Craig’s in the most soothing setting ever – good old bedroom with all his stuff in it, his guinea pig _and_ his boyfriend within easy reach. Of course he’ll be all serene and calm under _these_ circumstances, but what if something happens outside, and Craig decides to use this shiny new ability to rescue kittens from a tree or whatever?! He could get distracted, or someone could see him, and _then_ what? Carted off to a lab in handcuffs, all his public records erased, forced to live out the rest of his life as a _human lab rat?!_  
“Honey, shh,” Craig is saying, and Tweek realizes that not only did he just say all that stuff out loud; he’s also crying. “I promise I’ll be careful, okay? And I only practice at night, when Mike’s asleep. I just need to see what I can _do_ with this… This _thing_ I’ve got now.”  
“Go on,” Tweek sniffles, as he starts to smile in spite of himself, “You can say “super-powers”, okay?”  
Craig bends over and tries to kiss him, but he’s suddenly laughing too hard. “And people tell me _I’m_ sarcastic!”

By the time the boys decide to go back downstairs – Tweek going first, on the _off-chance_ that Craig should stumble or get dizzy – the grownups have moved over to the sofa group. Tricia’s sat down on the floor in front of Mom and pulled the scrunchies out of her long red hair, and Mom is doing her tipsy best to give her a French braid. To Tweek’s relief, he can see that Mom’s switched to coffee now – they all have; and the cups they’re drinking from are obviously from that same gold-rimmed dining set. Tweek swallows – maybe he can just slip into the kitchen, once he’s given Stripe back to Craig, and find himself a nice, non-precious mug.  
“So, is it actually a chain then,” Mr Tucker is asking, as he breaks off a piece of what must be pumpkin pie from the gold-rimmed side-plate he’s holding. “Tweak Bros, I mean?” Do you and your brothers each run one store?”  
That makes both Mom and Dad laugh, to Mr Tucker’s obvious surprise. “Oh no,” Dad says, raising one eyebrow, “My brothers both got themselves an _education_. There’s _one_ other Tweak Bros, and our parents run that one. My father got the idea for the name from Freak Brothers. You know,” Dad actually starts to blush, “The, ah, comic book. They’re _that_ generation.”  
“So _that’s_ why!” Craig’s grandma leans back in the sofa. She’s got her cup of coffee casually balanced on her knee, saucer and all. One of her hands is firmly wrapped around Mrs Finney’s hand.  
“Oh,” Mr Tucker’s exclaims, “I remember Freak Brothers! I got a bunch of ‘em from a junk shop as a kid. I never put two and two together though. I just thought it was funny, how stupid they were.”  
Tweek knows exactly what Craig’s dad is talking about – he has vague memories of rooting through Granddad’s ancient back issues, back when he’d only just started to grasp the concept that reading could be fun. He’d asked Dad if those three guys were drunk; because at the age of seven he hadn’t known what “stoned” was yet. “After a fashion,” Dad had replied, before he’d dropped a pile of brightly coloured 90’s Uncanny X-Men in front of Tweek – and those had been way more fun than the scratchy, black and white Freak Brothers.  
“It’s kind of a stoner comic,” Tweek whispers, when Craig gives him a confused look. “From the Sixties.”  
Craig’s mom looks up abruptly, and says, “You should have _told_ us you were coming downstairs!” She sounds annoyed, but it’s all from worry, Tweek can see that at once.  
“Mom,” Craig groans, walking over to the bigger of the two sofas and sitting down next to Mrs Finney, “It happened _once!_ ”  
“Come try the pumpkin pie, Tweek,” Craig’s grandma says, transferring her cup to the relative safety of the coffee table. She takes a side-plate from the little stack by the coffee pot, and cuts Tweek a _very_ generous slice.  
Mr Tucker reaches across the coffee table with a can of instant whipped cream, to spray a big dollop dead centre, and Tweek gets a feeling they do this every year. “My mother baked this,” he says, and Tweek realizes that, no matter how full he is from dinner, he can’t leave a single crumb behind. “Old family recipe.”  
“And a touch of pure Tucker class,” his wife drawls, snapping her fingernail into the cream canister and producing a hollow _ding_. Mom laughs like it’s the funniest thing she’s heard in her life. Out of the corner of his eye, Tweek can see Dad reaching for the coffee pot to refill her cup.  
“Yeah, so he went and legally changed his surname,” Dad goes on, talking while he pours, “To Tweak. This was when he opened the first store, with a friend of his – but he wound up buying the guy out later. Not very Communist of him, I suppose, but…” A grin slowly spreads across Dad’s face, and Tweek cringes in anticipation of the terrible joke he knows is about to come. “I guess they were no longer bros.”  
“Ugh, _Dad,_ ” Tweek groans, as he sinks down – and down – into the sofa next to Craig. This thing’s been sat half to death; so it feels a bit like the couch is gently eating him alive.  
Craig immediately slips his arm around Tweek’s shoulder, while his other hand grabs a fork off the table. “We’ll share,” he says, then looks over at Tweek like he’s suddenly wondering if he should have asked first. That uncertain frown on Craig’s face is the cutest thing. “Okay, babe?”  
“Yeah, sure,” Tweek croaks, through his suddenly constricted throat. It’s actually the best solution ever, since he’s not sure he can finish a slice that big. But Craig just called him “babe”! In front of everyone! Not to mention the casual way he’s scooped Tweek up so close! His cheeks are burning, his heart is pounding, and he can’t look _anyone_ in the eye. _Especially_ not Craig.  
“Aww,” Mom says, “Look at you two!” She clearly hasn’t had enough coffee to sober up just yet.  
“Would’ve made a cute photo,” Dad drawls, filling one of the empty coffee cups and setting it down in front of Tweek. So much for getting a mug from the kitchen. “If _someone_ hadn’t confiscated the camera.”  
Tweek quickly breaks off a piece of pumpkin pie and starts chewing, so he won’t growl or say anything stupid. And it’s actually amazing! Craig’s tucking in as well, eating with his left hand while he runs the fingers of his right up and down Tweek’s ribcage, and even Stripe’s getting interested now. He gets up on his hind legs, and Tweek realizes just how _long_ the guinea pig is, as he starts to whistle and sniff at the pie.  
“No, you don’t,” Craig tells him, with a quiet chuckle, gently pushing Tweek’s wrist to move the plate further away from Stripe.  
“I’ll peel him a clementine,” Tricia promises, and tries to look over her shoulder without moving her head to much. “How’s my hair, Mrs Tweak?”  
“I don’t know, Tricia.” Mom is tying off the rather lop-sided braid with a pink scrunchie, “I think that’s the best I can do. Just be glad you didn’t ask me to cut it! I used to cut my own hair,” she adds, smiling at everyone, as if that explains anything, “And I could never get that straight, either!”  
“Almost an inch longer on the right side,” Dad says, wagging his eyebrows. “I used to wonder if it was intentional, since her fashion sense was so…” He turns to Mom with a wide, teasing grin, “Unique?”  
“Not too “unique” for you to _marry_ me,” Mom fires back, and she’s grinning too. “Besides,” she turns to the general assembly, “Richard wasn’t exactly Mr Normal, either!”  
“Then _or_ now,” Tweek mutters, very quietly, around the last piece of pie. “Um,” he adds, more loudly, “This was so good, is it okay if I –”  
“And how old _were_ you two,” Craig’s dad is asking, in a tone that tells Tweek right away that _he’s_ read _that_ edition of the school paper.  
“Eighteen,” Mom replies, smiling brightly. “It was all part of Richard’s plan to get me out of the foster home I was in,” she goes on, and this is when Tweek knows for _sure_ that she’s had too much to drink. Otherwise, Mom would _never_ bring that stuff up in front of people she doesn’t know. “Since my foster dad was getting really grabby. Not that I wouldn’t have married you anyway,” she adds, looking right at Dad with a naughty little smile.  
“Foster home,” Tricia asks, all wide-eyed and confused, as she looks up from the clementine she’s peeling. Deep in his heart, Tweek sends out a quiet thanks to her parents, for not letting _her_ see that damn paper.  
“Not all parents are as nice as yours are, sweetheart.” Mom reaches out to tuck a lock of red hair behind Tricia’s ear. She’s smiling, but her eyes have gone all sad.  
“That must have been… really hard,” Craig’s mother says, and her voice is so different now. Softer than Tweek’s ever heard it before.  
“You know what?” Mom suddenly leans closer to Mrs Tucker, like she’s about to impart the secret of life, the universe and everything. “The _hardest_ thing was knowing when to flush the toilet. At night, I mean,” she hurriedly adds, when she’s met with a row of horrified stares. “In _some_ foster homes, they’d tell you _not_ to flush at night. In case you woke everybody up, right? But then, I’d get moved to another house, and all of a sudden…” Mom shrugs and laughs a little, “One of the parents would take me aside, and ask why I hadn’t flushed. And it was so hard to keep it straight in my head!”  
“Yeah,” Dad chimes in, “Remember our wedding night, Helen? We spent it at my parents’ house,” he quickly explains, “In the guest room; because my bed was only _this_ wide.” He holds his hands up to illustrate, and Tweek has to suppress a snort of disbelief – with a bed _that_ narrow, it’d only take _one fart_ to catapult yourself onto the floor at night. “Her foster dad showed up to take her back,” he goes on, and suddenly there’s no warmth left in Dad’s voice at all. “So my dad and I, and both my brothers, we all went outside and told him to get lost. Now, our mother was on some pretty hefty anti-depressants at the time,” Dad goes on, “Which none of us knew about, not even our dad, until she decided to give Helen one of her pills after that guy showed up.”  
“I was roofied by my mother-in-law,” Mom jokes, with a little giggle. Craig’s parents don’t seem to find it nearly as funny as she does, though. “I turned out to be one of those rare people who have the _opposite_ side effect? Richie wanted me to sleep it off, but I _ripped_ his pyjama shirt open,” Mom’s almost laughing too hard to talk, but unfortunately only _almost,_ “And the buttons! _They went everywhere!_ ”  
Tweek is so embarrassed that he literally doesn’t know what to do with himself. He can’t look at Craig, let _alone_ at Craig’s parents. He can’t even look at Craig’s grandma, no matter how nice and cool she is. And definitely not at her girlfriend, who _never_ signed up for _this_ shit!  
“Yeah, so, that was the, ah…” Dad glances over at Tricia for a second, clearly worried about small pots having big ears, “Night of the mutual cherry-popping. So of course _I_ slept like a _stone_ afterwards…”  
Dad laughs, and Mom joins in, but there’s a strangled noise coming from Mr Tucker’s direction. Tweek just wants to run to the hallway, grab his shoes and coat, and make a break for it. He risks a quick glance up, to see that Craig’s mom is glaring daggers at Dad from further down the table, while Tricia is paying _very_ close attention.  
Dad, meanwhile, is completely oblivious to all this. “But Helen woke me up,” he goes on, “At I don’t know, three in the morning? Shaking me like the house was on fire, and yelling, “Do you flush?!” ”  
“And _he_ said,” Mom effortlessly slips into her much-practiced impression of Dad; “Of course I flush the _toilet,_ Helen!” She can never get her voice to go deep enough, but damn, the tone is perfect, “I’m not a _barbarian!_ ”  
“Hah!” Craig’s palm slaps down hard on Tweek’s thigh, before he tips his head back and laughs and laughs. Stripe’s climbed back up on Craig’s shoulder, and he’s holding the guinea pig in place with his left hand, making sure it doesn’t fall while he’s laughing his ass off. His grandma joins in at some point, and of course Tricia does too – Tweek hopes it’s because her brother’s being silly, and _not_ because she actually gets what’s going on.  
“So hey,” Tweek says, his voice shrill and unnaturally loud, “Why don’t you show us some guinea pig tricks, Craig?”

By the time the grownups decide the party’s over, Tweek is more than ready to go home, Craig or no Craig. Unsurprisingly, the conversation never quite recovered from his parents talking about… _that_.  
“Your mom’s hilarious,” Craig whispers into Tweek’s ear as he leans over him. They’re not quite hugging, but Craig’s chest is pressed against Tweek’s back, and it’s reassuring to feel how he’s filled out a bit already.  
“Are you _sure_ you don’t want to borrow a pair of my shoes,” Craig’s mom is asking, because Mom has just declared she’s _way_ too tipsy to risk walking out in heels.  
“Oh no,” Mom’s saying, waving the hand she’s holding her heels in, “I’ll be _fine_. Our car’s just right out _there_. Hold this, will you?” She’s passing her clutch purse to Dad, so she can button her coat up one-handed.  
Tweek watches his parents share a quick, warm smile as Mom’s fingers brush the back of Dad’s hand. And in spite of the whole terminal embarrassment thing, he suddenly feels so intensely happy, because _he’s_ got that too, now. That casual affection they share, that makes even the smallest touch a reminder that it’s _them,_ together, always. For him, touching Craig is like that – even just bumping noses, or leaning into each other, like now. How nervous must Mom have been, to drink that much? Filled with a sudden burst of tenderness, Tweek just wants to run over there, pick his mother up and hug her tight. But wait a second… He looks over his shoulder at Craig, chewing his lip while he thinks. How much does Craig weigh by now, anyway?  
It’s not even a fully formed thought before Tweek acts on it, turning around, locking his hands under Craig’s butt, and hoisting him off the ground. Craig makes a startled sound, and instinctively tries to throw his arms around Tweek’s shoulders for balance. But, he’s so much taller that it inevitably turns into a sort of fireman’s lift, with Craig yelling “Babe, what the hell,” while Tweek swings them both in a circle.  
“Look, Craig,” he says happily, going round and round, “I can totally lift you, too!”  
The click of a shutter, the flash from a camera – those two things suddenly and mercilessly remind Tweek that they’re in the Tuckers’ front hallway, that his impulse control has never been fantastic, and that both their families are watching.  
“That’s, that’s great, honey,” Craig is saying, and he’s clearly struggling to keep his voice so even, “But can you _please_ put me down?”  
“Gah! Yeah! Sorry!” Tweek quickly tips Craig’s feet back on the floor, and takes five big steps away from him. How could he be so stupid?!  
“Very nice off-the-feet sweeping, son,” Dad drawls, “Ten out of ten.” Tweek groans when he sees Dad slipping the camera into his pocket; that _was_ him! Compiling photographic evidence of Tweek making an ass of himself. The rest of the grown-ups are laughing quietly, and Craig’s grandma is pressing what looks like a business card on Dad, telling him to email her the pictures. “Oh I took a short video as well,” Dad tells her, _just_ loud enough for everyone to hear. “You want that, too?”  
Tweek busies himself pulling his new winter coat on over his suit, and looks down at the floor while he steps into his shoes. He’s blushing so bad, and Craig must be super pissed with him, and it’s _all_ his own fault. _Stupid_ ADHD! Mom’s just finished hugging Craig’s mom goodbye now, and she’s standing on tip-toe to give Mr Tucker his hug, and that isn’t even _half_ as embarrassing as what Tweek’s gone and done.  
“Hey,” Craig says, from right behind him.  
Tweek screams and jumps half a foot, and somehow even manages to kick one of his own shoes off. “Y-yeah,” he mutters, not quite trusting himself to look up, in case this is the bit where Craig tells him he’s _done_ with Tweek's shit.  
“Don’t _I_ get a hug?” Craig’s standing there with his hands shoved into the pockets of his track pants. His face is all red, and he’s not _quite_ looking in Tweek’s direction.  
“You, you actually _want_ one,” Tweek squeals, and watches Craig’s features slowly soften into a smile.  
Craig just nods, so Tweek hurries over, on one sock and one shoe, to slide his arms around his waist. He can feel Craig relaxing against him, rubbing his cheek against the top of Tweek’s head. “I’ll pick _you_ up, when I’m better,” he promises; and it could almost sound like a threat if Craig wasn’t so obviously struggling not to laugh. “Then you can see how much _you_ like it.”  
“That’s only fair,” Tweek tells him, leaning into the hug, _drinking_ up the fact that, in _spite_ of how weird he is, Craig wants him _anyway_. He looks up at his boyfriend, laughter bubbling in his chest. “Did you see where my shoe went?”


	40. What do fish talk about?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you think Jimmy's fashion sense sounds like the height of style (I mean, I do!), you should check out Pycnic, where he got his sweatshirt:  
> https://pyknic.com/collections/mens-sweatshirts  
> You'll also see the one he got Tweek for his birthday - and see if you can guess which sweatshirt Jimmy's already given Clyde. Neither Craig nor Token have got one yet, because they haven't released any that match their personalities... yet.
> 
> EDIT: Thank you so much for over 8000 hits, you guys!!

“That was a total _disaster,_ ” Tweek growls into his phone, while he’s pulling the duvet over his head. “And now your parents _hate_ my parents!” He’s finally in bed, which means Craig could finally call him. Today was the most nerve-wracking Thanksgiving of Tweek’s _life,_ so he’s nowhere _near_ ready to just go to sleep. His whole body is jittering with nervous energy, and his thoughts keep going round in circles: This whole thing was a mistake. A huge mistake! Now, Craig’s parents will probably _ban_ Craig from dating him. Everything’s ruined, and it’s all Tweek’s fault.  
“Nah,” Craig drawls, like tonight’s fiasco doesn’t stress him out at all, “They just don’t _get_ your parents.” Something in the way Craig’s voice shifts tells Tweek that he must be grinning wickedly, back in his own room. “You wanna know what they, did after you guys left?”  
Of _course_ Tweek doesn’t _want_ to know! But now that Craig’s gone and _said_ that, he’ll think about it all _night_ unless Craig tells him. “Ngh, fine,” he growls, running a hand through his bangs.  
“Honey,” Craig asks, “Are you pulling your hair now?”  
It takes real effort to force his hand down, to lie flat on the mattress. “Nnno.”  
“If you say so, babe.” Craig’s laughter is deep and throaty. “My grandma just sat down on the stairs, she was laughing so hard,” he begins, still chuckling while he talks. “My dad just stood there, with his mouth open, so I went, “Well, what’d you think?” Grandma went, “They’re not _boring,_ are they,” and my mom just shook her head, and went to get a beer that she drank _straight_ out of the can. And my dad had a whiskey.”  
Tweek buries his face in his pillow and growls, as loud as he dares.  
“Oh, but it gets better,” Craig goes on, “Because that’s when the doorbell rang? And some kid from Tricia’s class was standing out there, with his dad, who’d had to drive him the whole way! And he was trying to give her a _toad_.” Craig starts laughing again, while Tweek rolls over on his back.  
“Um, that doesn’t sound right,” he says, trying to focus _just_ on what sounds like another speech snafu, “What you said was, ah, an animal that croaks, and is bigger than a frog?”  
“Yeah,” Craig snorts, “That’s what I _meant!_ He brought her a _live toad_ as a present, because…” Craig’s actually laughing too hard to talk properly, “Because he’s in _love_ with her! After that fight she got into with shithead’s sister! Half the boys in her class are like, _obsessed_ with her now!”  
“Oh dear,” Tweek can’t not laugh, “Poor Tricia!”  
“I know, right?! It’s not like Tricia even _wanted_ a toad! She wouldn’t even _touch_ the poor thing,” Craig starts laughing again, “And then Dad properly told the kid off, and said Tricia’s not old enough to date, and that you could kill a toad by keeping it inside! And then the kid started bawling! And apologizing - to the toad!”  
There’s no _chance_ his parents won’t hear him now, but Tweek would probably die if he tried to hold in a laugh this big. It’s only ten, anyway, so it’s not like he isn’t _allowed_ to be on his phone. “Oh wow,” he wheezes, “That’s insane; I love it! So then what?”  
“Then the kid’s dad was like, telling him to get in the car and tell him where he _found_ the poor toad, so they could set it free together. So that was kind of nice, I guess. And the whole time, Tricia was telling the kid to go away, and saying she hates him!”  
“So I bet he’s even _more_ in love with her now,” Tweek snorts, “Right?”  
“Probably,” Craig agrees, and then they both just laugh together for a while.  
“Did the toad thing overshadow my parents,” Tweek asks at last, though he’s actually not afraid of the answer now. “Or is that too much to hope for?”  
“Babe,” Craig drawls, “Even when they’re ninety-nine and _senile,_ my parents won’t forget that Thanksgiving!”

“Morning, son,” Dad says, without turning around. He’s standing at the kitchen counter, still wearing his pyjamas, slicing up bread in his usual ski-slope fashion.  
“Ngh,” Tweek replies, shuffling over to the coffee maker, where there’s already a full pot – Dad’s got his priorities, after all. “How’d you know it was me?”  
“Because your mother won’t come out of bed until I drag her by the ankles,” Dad tells him cheerfully, and turns around just a _little_ too soon. “Tweek,” he snaps, “Put that down!”  
“But Dad…” Caught with the coffee pot halfway to his lips, there’s not much else Tweek _can_ say.  
“Mugs!” Dad snatches one out of the cupboard without really looking, before he puts it down in front of Tweek on the counter with a clack. “For civilized people who don’t burn themselves.”  
It’s the Batman mug, Tweek realizes – the one Mr Donovan usually drinks from. He feels a little weird, drinking from it, since it’s kind of become Mr Donovan’s mug now. But Dad actually _stands_ there to watch him pour, which is pretty insulting, and brings over his own mug for a top-up after Tweek’s done.  
Tweek starts pulling toppings out of the fridge – peanut butter and the packet of herbs and onion Philadelphia, strawberry jam and Quorn ham – in between sips of coffee. Ahh. Dad’s already put plates and knives out on the table, so Tweek just needs to grab a slice and sit down.  
That’s when he suddenly spots it – the pink envelope tucked halfway under his plate. Could it be…? Tweek shoves the plate aside, and even when he recognizes his own name on the front, he still rips the envelope in his urgency to make sure that this is really _it._  
_Dear Tweek. If I know you, you’re feeling bad over what Kenny did right now,_ he reads, before his head starts to spin and the words start to swim on the page. His hand tightens around the Batman mug as Tweek squeezes his eyes shut, remembering the advice from his psychiatrist. Focus on the mug, let the warmth spread through his hands. Let the heat ground him, along with the soothing, familiar smell of coffee. And breathe.  
“Hey,” Dad says, from a million miles away, “Is something wrong?”  
He cracks one eyelid open, experimentally. Is it still there, Bebe’s cute, chubby handwriting with the ampersands instead of “and’s”? Seems to be, so he opens his other eye too, and reads; _After everything he did to you over the years, I’M GLAD HE’S DEAD._  
It’s real. And if the letter’s real, that means everything he remembers is real, too!  
“Thanks,” Tweek whispers hoarsely, and when Dad brings the whole chopping board over and puts it in the middle of the table, Tweek can’t help but throw his arms around Dad’s waist and bury his face in his sweater.  
“Huh.” This happens rarely enough that it takes Dad a second to hug him back. “It meant that much to you; did it?”  
Suddenly embarrassed, Tweek pulls back, nodding. “Uh-huh,” he mutters, averting his eyes before he has some more coffee.  
“So, have you packed for Denver yet?” Dad tosses a round heat-protector on the table, and sets the coffee pot down on it. It’s like he _knows_ that Tweek’s been putting it off.  
“Later,” he mutters, rolling up his own pyjama sleeves so he won’t end up dipping them in his mug, or dragging them across the open packet of cheese spread. When he’s this tired, anything could happen.  
“Might be good to get it out of the way,” Dad says, pulling out his usual chair and sitting down. “Before court. Might give you something else to think about. You know you’ve got nothing to worry about, right?”  
“Mm,” Tweek nods. When they all sat down to talk to Token’s dad, that day Token brought his old X-box over, his parents had made it very clear that they don’t want Tweek to testify at today’s hearing unless it’s really necessary. To Tweek’s relief, Mr Black had been totally fine with that.  
“Anyway,” Dad starts spreading Philadelphia on his slice of bread. “I’m sorry to have to say this, but I think they’re a bit strange." He puts a piece of Quorn ham on top of the cheese, folding it so it almost looks like a hotel buffet sandwich. “Craig’s parents,” he clarifies, when Tweek just stares at him blearily.  
“Uh?” It’s way too early in the morning for this kind of conversation. Why?” Not that Tweek even _wants_ to know, or think too hard about yesterday’s dinner party.  
“Well, for instance... Did you hear them _thanking_ us, for hanging out with Roger?”  
Okay, so Tweek was wrong – there’s _never_ a good time for this kind of conversation! “No…?”  
“Ah right – that must’ve been when you boys were upstairs, making out.” Dad takes a huge bite out of his sandwich, and chews it with obvious relish.  
In spite of how casually Dad said it, Tweek can’t help but give a guilty twitch. “Don’t say “make out,” okay,” he growls, and stuffs the letter back in the envelope before he folds the whole thing in half. “It sounds gross when a grownup says it.”  
“Hm,” is Dad’s only reply, and that’s when Tweek realizes he’s basically been tricked into admitting it. But he’s too tired to stress out over it, so he just growls some more while he tops up his coffee. At _least_ Dad’s not talking about how breakfast is the most important meal of the day. So that’s _something._  
“Well, anyway.” Dad puts his sandwich down, “Craig’s mother suddenly brought up how, when Roger’s wife died, the two of them didn’t know what to _say._ Top-up?” He holds up the coffee pot, and Tweek nods; he’s barely got half a cup left. The Batman mug is stupidly small. “She said they tried to help out with practical things,” Dad goes on, while he pours – first into Tweek’s mug, and then his own. “Looking after Clyde when Roger was busy, stuff like that. But after a while, they just “drifted apart”.” Dad does honest-to-god air-quotes, rolling his eyes. “Can you believe that?”  
Actually, Tweek sort of _can_ \- he’s seen how Craig’s parents like to keep their feelings private. Like that time he and the guys went to their house, on Halloween. How hard those two tried to pretend that everything was normal. “People are different, I guess,” he mutters, glaring at his four different options of sandwich toppings. He likes all four; how’s he even supposed to _decide?!_  
“You’re probably right.” Dad’s already finished his first sandwich, and is reaching for a second one. “But I just don’t get it – when somebody _dies,_ that when you _have to_ step in and help.” How anyone could have that much of an appetite this early in the AM… Tweek himself can barely choke down _one_ sandwich, or a _small_ bowl of oatmeal with fruit, and that’s only if he’s got plenty of coffee to help it slide down. “Anyway, your mother …” Dad starts to grin, while he’s spreading jam on his second slice, “She said there was no need to thank us, and that Roger’s like a second husband to her now! And then Craig’s parents both choked on their food!”  
“Jesus,” Tweek mutters, grabbing the peanut butter after all while Dad’s busy laughing. He gets why his parents want to turn all those rumours into something funny; Tweek’s spent his entire life being exposed to their weird-ass humour after all. But he can’t help but wonder how literally Craig’s parents would’ve taken that comment.

Since Mom completely fails to show for breakfast, Tweek puts jam on a slice of bread and makes her a coffee with plenty of milk and sugar in it, in her favourite polkadot mug. She’s awake; he sees that as soon as he’s shouldered the door open. Sitting up in bed wearing the Family Cardigan over Dad’s old Ace Ventura T-shirt; with a book open in her lap. It’s that old translation of Buddhist sutras that she’s always had, for as long as Tweek can remember. Reading out loud to herself; very softly: “When a Bodhisattva depends on the one true path, his mind can conjure no more obstacles. And without obstacles, no fears exits.”  
“Far apart from the trappings of the world,” Tweek says, finishing the verse for her, “He then dwells in Nirvana.”  
Mom smiles up at him; and to Tweek’s intense relief, she doesn’t look worried at all. “Breakfast in bed,” she says, holding her hands out for the tray, and giving him a quick kiss on the cheek that he can’t quite escape from. Not that he wants to. “Thank you, Tweek! Now get in, or your feet’ll get cold!”  
Tweek obediently climbs in at the foot end of his parents’ bed, because they don’t even need to leave the house until eight-thirty. He watches Mom hoover that sandwich up – she must’ve been really hungry – content to just sit there, slumping against the bedframe and stretching his legs out across Dad’s side.  
Then Mom has a big, fortifying sip of coffee, and says, “So Tweek. Why didn’t you ever tell us how bad things were at school?”  
“Gah!” Her question takes Tweek completely by surprise, and he jerks upright so fast that he almost kicks her by accident. “I mean, I don’t know,” he blurts out, even though that isn’t strictly true. “I guess I was… embarrassed?”  
Mom’s eyes grow huge and confused. “But why on Earth,” she says, leaning forwards so she can grab one of his hands. “You haven’t done _anything_ to be ashamed of!”  
“Craig said something like that too,” Tweek mutters, looking down at the picture on his parents’ double duvet – a huge, golden Buddha holding his hand up in a blessing. “And Clyde. That it was just Cartman looking for an easy victim. But it always _felt_ like I brought it on myself, you know?”  
“I think,” Mom says slowly, like she’s choosing each word very carefully, “That the reason you felt it was your fault, was because those boys _acted_ like it was your fault?”  
Tweek feels his mouth slide open, as the last puzzle piece slots into place in his mind. “Yeah,” he mutters, because it’s so obviously the truth, “Of course.”  
“And then, after…” Mom drops her gaze to the mug in her hands, “You know, at the hospital? Was Craig the reason you refused to let us take you out of school?”  
Ugh, Mom’s always been able to see right through him. Tweek feels himself starting to blush; so badly that he doesn’t even need to answer. He just ducks his head and growls.  
“I mean, I get that,” Mom says, tugging at his hand until he looks up. “I chose to stay in a horrible situation too, because of a boy.”  
“You mean,” Tweek asks her, “Because of Dad?” The idea of his father as some kind of romantic dreamboat is hard to wrap his head around, to put it mildly. Probably half the people in _town_ have always wondered how someone as pretty as Mom wound up marrying Dad, who ends up looking like Ronald MacDonald if he forgets to cut his hair.  
“Mm,” Mom nods, and a secretive little smile flits across her face. “Moving to a different foster home would’ve meant moving to a different town – and changing schools. So I guess…” Mom shrugs, “I guess you take after me more than you probably should.” She takes another sip of coffee, before she drops the biggest bombshell ever, “Your father was bullied too, you know.”  
“What?!”  
“Shh,” Mom gives Tweek’s hand a little squeeze before she lets go, so she can cradle her mug between both hands again. “I don’t think he’d even admit to _himself_ that that’s what it was, but… When I first met him, our whole class had decided to just freeze him out. Every time he spoke, they all flat-out ignored him. That is, when they weren’t mocking him for rescuing animals.”  
“Ace Ventura,” Tweek says, nodding as he starts to understand. He can’t imagine, now, growing older _without_ keeping his friends in his life. But he remembers when his parents got their high-school reunion letters, and ceremonially burned them over the sink.  
“People always feel threatened when someone’s different from them,” Mom says. “Even when it’s something as small as being vegetarian.”  
“Wait a minute.” Tweek holds his hand up. “Are you telling me I’m _terrifying?_ ” He’s starting to laugh, even while he says it, but the look Mom gives him is one hundred percent serious.  
“To a small-minded idiot like Eric Cartman? Sure,” Mom tells him, and winks. “Are you ready to scare him some more today?”

When the three of them pile into the Datsun, Tweek can’t help but think that they look like they’re on their way to a funeral. White shirts all around, with Tweek in his black suit; and Dad in his grey suit. Mom, as a kind of middle-point, is wearing a grey pencil skirt and black blazer. Mom was even saying he and Dad should swap neckties, to make them all look even more “cohesive”, but she was _probably_ kidding.  
This time, Tweek was the one suggesting they take a family selfie on their way out the door. He uploads it to Instagram as soon as he’s got his seatbelt buckled, with the caption “Going to court counts as family-time, right?”  
Then he notices the little “new follower” sign, which is weird, because he’s mutuals with pretty much everybody by now, even Esther and Kyle. But when he sees that their handle is “mormon_no_more”, Tweek instantly knows who it is. He almost drops his phone on the floor in his haste to press the blue “follow back” button. There’s a shiny new DM from Mike, too, that reads: _Hi Tweek, I hope you don’t mind me following you on here. Craig told me today’s your big day in court, and I just wanted to wish you good luck. How was your Thanksgiving with Craig’s family? I hear there are photos of you picking Craig up and swinging him around? If this is true, you need to post one! Craig is acting so smug now that he needs taking down a peg! Anyway, one of my sisters drove down from Salt Lake City with her husband, and we went out for dinner. They’re expecting their first baby already, so that’s exciting news. PS: Please give my regards to your mother._  
Yeah right – as if Tweek would post one of those photos, even if Craig agreed to it. Still, it’s nice that Mike seems to be feeling good enough to joke around. “Mom, Mike says hi!”  
“Oh, the giftwrap Mormon guy?” Mom, who’s been fixing her lipstick in the rear-view mirror, turns around excitedly. “Tell him hi back! Oh, and use that big kiss emoji,” she adds, grinning. She obviously knows Tweek will do no such thing.  
“ _Ex-_ Mormon,” Tweek specifies, rolling his eyes fondly. Your average _normal_ mom would’ve thought of Mike as Craig’s roommate. He types a quick reply back, saying congrats on being an uncle soon, and thanking Mike for thinking of them today. While he’s still writing, his phone buzzes twice – and this time, it’s Craig, on the group thread. _Sorry I forgot yesterday,_ the first message reads. The second message is a photo, taken on a long-ago Halloween. Craig’s posing on the front steps of the Tuckers’ house, wearing the same Red Racer outfit Tricia went trick-or-treating in. It must’ve been an unusually warm October, or Craig must’ve been incredibly stubborn even as a kid, because he’s standing there in short sleeves, doing a classic Red Racer pose; the one where he looks over his shoulder and tips his visor up. Forget about those videos of Stripe doing tricks, from now on, _this_ is officially the cutest thing Tweek has seen in his life. He presses the phone against his chest, squeezing his eyes closed. My boyfriend, he thinks, smiling to himself. Mine. 

Mr Black’s already waiting for them outside the town hall, where the preliminary hearing will take place. Token’s there with him, and so are Jimmy and Mr Valmer. “Our moms went shopping,” Token says, by way of a greeting, as he pulls Tweek close and puts his arm around him. “It’s gonna be fine,” he whispers, right next to Tweek’s ear. Token’s also wearing a suit; in a shimmering indigo blue with just the smallest hint of purple. It fits him so well that it’s _got_ to have been tailored.  
Jimmy and his dad, on the other hand, seem to have a very different grasp of what constitutes appropriate courtroom attire. Mr Valmer’s wearing washed-out slacks and a cardigan with elbow-patches, while Jimmy’s standing there with his coat open so everyone can see his “Cereal Killer” sweatshirt, with the tails and collar of a black and yellow flannel shirt sticking out. “I’ve got to w-wear something yellow,” he says, wagging his eyebrows at Tweek, “Or people w-w-won’t know it’s me, you know?”  
It’s nice to have a reason to laugh. “I should’ve worn mine,” Tweek says, nudging him carefully. His birthday present from Jimmy had been a sweatshirt from the same label, only Tweek’s one has a bunch of skulls piled up on the front, with the slogan “Death Before Decaf”.  
“Bring it to Denver,” Jimmy grins, just as Mr Black clears his throat.  
“This is just the prelim,” Mr Black reminds them all, “So the judge won’t be deciding on whether or not Eric Cartman is guilty today. Today is all about presenting enough evidence for the judge to grant us a trial. Not that I foresee any problems with that,” he adds, patting the side of his briefcase. “I’ve already submitted copies of everything we’ve got, including the security footage from Roger’s shop, and a copy of that infernal school paper.” There’s something _about_ Mr Black; a kind of effortless authority that lets him _do_ stuff like drop the word “infernal” into everyday conversation. “A lot of weight is placed on the credibility of the witnesses,” he looks straight at Jimmy, “So I’d like you to drop that sweater, James, before you take the stand.”  
Jimmy probably doesn’t get called James very often, because the grin slips right off his face. “I can w-wear it b-b-backwards,” he offers, hastily zipping his jacket all the way up, “And I’ll l-leave my c-c-coat on!”  
“Do it in the foyer, son.” Mr Valmer gives his son a gentle push between the shoulder blades. “They’ve set out chairs along the walls.” As Chief of the South Park Fire Department, Mr Valmer probably gets to go to the town hall al lot. But the last time Tweek was in there, he was so young that he can’t remember what it looked like at all. “If everyone’s ready…?”  
Tweek turns to look at his parents. Dad’s got that huge, confident smile on his face that means he’s secretly nervous as hell, and Mom’s leaning against him, fiddling with the zipper on her purse. Her hands are shaking a little, but when she lifts her head, there’s a look of pure determination on her face. She nods, just once.  
“Then let’s go,” Mr Black says, taking their silence for agreement. The grown-ups sort of naturally wind up walking in front while the three boys bring up the rear, Tweek and Token flanking Jimmy.  
“So hey,” Token says, very innocently, “What do fish talk about?”  
Tweek squeals so loudly that he startles _himself_. “That _traitor,_ ” he growls, but then he can’t _not_ laugh.  
“Tweek, my dude,” Jimmy says, wincing a little as he pulls himself up the high steps, “D-do you have any idea how h-h-hard it is to m-make Craig shut up about you? N-now that you g-g-guys’re all official?”  
“He was all over the group chat after you’d left,” Token chimes in, as they start walking up the black marble steps at the front of the building. “Telling us about your different, uh “incarnations”. I remembered the tree, actually.”  
“Shut up,” Tweek growls, reaching past Jimmy’s shoulders – his arm almost isn’t long enough – to snap his finger into the side of Token’s face.  
“Tweek?” Jimmy suddenly bursts into song – but quietly, since the adults are close by, “What do the fish say?” Distantly, Tweek realises that when he sings, Jimmy doesn’t stutter at all.  
Tweek remembers that song, that stupid ear-worm from years and years ago, “Bird goes tweet and mouse goes squeak…” Obviously, Token remembers it too. He snorts, rubbing his cheek, and Tweek has to struggle to keep a straight face.  
“Oh, pretty much what you’d expect,” Tweek says, improvising wildly. “They talk about swimming, eating, shitting…”  
“Eating their own shit,” Jimmy asks helpfully.  
“Yeah, sometimes,” Tweek agrees, smiling innocently, “For extra protein, or when they get bored of fish flakes. So it’s really not that interesting.”  
Token laughs as he reaches past Jimmy to hold one of the double doors open. “You win, Tweek,” he says, shaking his head, “You win.”

Actually being in court is nothing _like_ the TV-shows. There’s a lot of waiting, for one thing – first out in the hallway, where Jimmy turns his sweater around, and then inside the court-room. It’s done up in wall-to-wall dark wood, with a white ceiling and a green, diamond-patterned rug on the floor. Actually, wait – when he looks over his shoulder, Tweek sees that the back wall, the one behind the Gallery, is white too. Maybe someone wanted to save money on all that oak paneling. The American flag sits in one corner, drooping like a wilted flower. And off to one side, a large projector screen has been unfurled – Tweek can guess why. What looks like a huge golden coin from the Roman Empire – there’s an eagle on it – has been set into the wall above the judge’s bench. Otherwise, there’s not much in the way of decoration.  
“That’s the court seal,” Token whispers, giving Tweek a pat on the shoulder. “Remember, you’ve _got_ this.” Then, before Tweek has time to reply, Token turns away and follows Jimmy and Mr Valmer over to the Gallery. Tweek has to sit at the plaintiff’s table at the very front, with Mom and Dad and Mr Black, who’s popped his briefcase open and is laying out piles of documents on the tabletop. Neat little stacks of paper that he straightens out, DVD’s sealed in plastic bags. There’s the one Tweek found under the TV cabinet, that’s got Cartman’s fingerprints on it. The other one’s a burnt disk, with “Shoe store sec. cam.” written on the front with a Sharpie, and a third one has been marked “Park County TV”.  
“Don’t worry,” Mr Black suddenly says, looking right at Tweek. “We’ve got this. Ah,” he looks past Tweek’s shoulder, as he adds a bagged copy of “School News” to one pile, “Gerald.”  
More people are starting to file in. Tweek immediately recognizes Mr Saunders, the mall security guard, and that police detective with the curly hair. And there’s Kyle’s dad, who comes over to shake hands with Mr Black. Tweek can’t help but give a little twitch when he sees Cartman walking right behind Mr Broflofski, along with his creepy mom. Is _he_ the one representing Cartman, then? Kyle follows at a distance – like he doesn’t want anybody to associate him with Cartman. No Stan Marsh, though – maybe he’s off visiting family. Maybe he just couldn’t be bothered to show up for his friend. With Marsh, Tweek figures, it’s a fifty-fifty chance. And there’s Leo Stotch, with both his parents. The four of them go sit on the bench behind Jimmy and Token; and Kyle even strikes up a conversation with them. Leo Stotch, with Kyle on his one side and Mr Stotch on the other, seems to have decided that it’s safer not to talk. He keeps rubbing his hands together, visibly nervous, like he’s trying to start some kind of bare-knuckle fire over there.  
Is _Cartman_ nervous? Looking at him, you wouldn’t think so. He’s got that smug, lazy smile on his face that Tweek’s grown to hate – the smile that seems to say, however deep in trouble I am, you just watch me wriggle out of it.  
“She asked me to represent him first,” Mr Black says, pulling Tweek out of his thoughts. “Mrs Cartman,” he adds, with a discreet smile. “I told her that, not only had I already offered to represent you and the Donovans…” Mr Black’s smile widens slightly, “But also, I simply didn’t want to. It would’ve been highly unprofessional of me to take a picture of the look on her face, but…” Mr Black shrugs, and taps his own chest, “But it’s the pictures you keep in your _heart_ that really _matter,_ right?”  
Dad snorts once, before he does that thing where he jams his own hand into his mouth so he won’t laugh. Mom clings to Tweek’s arm, while the two of them press their heads together and giggle as quietly as they can. So _this_ is where Token gets his sneaky sense of humour from!  
It’s almost a relief when the trial can finally begin. A female court official with her dark hair scraped back in a tight braid – she’s called the bailiff, from what Mr Black told Tweek beforehand – reads out an opening statement that Tweek’s too nervous to pay proper attention to; though of course there’s the list of charges against Cartman. Harassment and burglary, arson and attempted murder. Cartman doesn’t even look scared, over at the other table.  
The judge, an older white woman with her greying hair tied in a knot at the nape of her neck, bangs her gavel once. “The court is in session,” she says gravely. “Mr Black, you have the floor.”  
There is a single, obnoxiously loud snort from the defendant’s table, and Tweek can feel his whole face heating up with second-hand embarrassment. Sure, maybe you’d think it was ironic that a black man’s surname was actually “Black”. But then, you might consider how that name probably got its start when a former slave first got his freedom, and suddenly needed a surname. How this man might never have learned to read and write, and how the white guy filling out his papers for him had been the first one to think “Black” would be an amusing name for a freed slave. It really isn’t funny at all.  
To his credit, Mr Black doesn’t even raise an eyebrow. He just waits until the judge has banged her gavel again and called for order, before he opens the case. “Your honour,” he begins, “What we have here is a teenager well on his way to becoming a career criminal. Eric Cartman has repeatedly targeted, cruelly and deliberately, two of his classmates as well as their families. And the most recent incident…” Mr Black pauses for effect, and looks right at Cartman, sitting between Mr Broflofski and his mom, “Nearly ended in tragedy. Eric Cartman can clearly be seen on the security footage from my client’s shop on the day of the fire, pouring what appears to be lighter fluid onto the floor and merchandise. Was it his intent to murder my client, or merely to destroy his livelihood?” Here, Mr Black turns from the judge to the room at large, spreading his hands out. “That is one of the things we are here to find out. However, this arson attack was only the last in a whole string of incidents. Along with one or more accomplices, Mr Cartman conspired to spread slander about my clients, including unfounded accusations of the Tweak couple using their coffee business as a front for dealing methamphetamines, with the clear intent of harming their business.” Mr Black taps the bagged-up school paper with his finger. “Which would have been bad enough, had it not followed hot on the heels of a break-in at the Tweak family’s home. This appears to have been motivated in part, at least, by religious hatred, as among other things the defendant smashed one of their religious objects and urinated on another. Here, however, the defendant made his first serious mistake – by leaving behind his fingerprints.”  
As Mr Black holds up their copy of Karate Kid II in its plastic bag, Tweek can’t help himself. He lies down as flat as he can along the table-top, to get a good look at Cartman’s face. And wow – for the first time, the fat boy actually looks rattled.  
“Add to this two more charges of harassment and vandalism, as the defendant went on to fasten a dead animal to the Donovan family’s front door, accompanied by _this_ note”, Mr Black holds up that Tweak Bros coaster Cartman wrote on, bagged and tagged, in one hand. In the other, he holds up a wad of documents. “Which I am submitting,” Mr Black goes on, “With an analysis and comparison of the defendant’s handwriting. As well as photographs of the animal itself, which are so disturbing that I have chosen to place them in an envelope, and…” He puts both back down on the table, to hold up a single photo of the scraped-up Datsun, “Of the vandalism he performed on the Tweak family’s car.” Mr Black tosses the photograph back down on the table, where it flutters down to land right in front of Tweek. “And why, do you ask, does Eric Cartman behave this way?” Clearly, it’s a rhetorical question. “Simply put, your honour: Because he is a bully. A bully with prior criminal convictions,” Mr Black now holds up a floppy plastic folder with red backing, “The earliest committed at the age of nine. I will not speculate too deeply into his reasons for selecting his particular victims, though his motivations do appear to stem from homophobia, bigotry and simple, plain cruelty.” Tweek can’t help but glance over at Mr Broflofski, who is dabbing at the back of his neck with a Kleenex. Looks like his son isn’t the only one who doesn’t really want to be here.  
Mr Black finishes up by presenting their evidence to the court – the security footage, the fingerprints and the newspaper. He’s even brought all the broken pieces of the old Buddha statute from Mom and Dad’s room, in a separate plastic bag. There’s also a single, partially melted sneaker, with a wad of documents stapled to it. Everything is placed on a big tray and carried over to the judge, who seems to have made up her mind already, from the cursory way she looks over the bagged-up items.  
“Very well,” the judge says, “Mr Black. The prosecution may call their first witness.”  
Jimmy gets up from his seat at the very edge of the bench – no doubt he chose it for the sake of speed – and makes his way up to the circular witness stand. The bailiff hurries over there, to hold the little gate open for him, and Tweek can tell that Jimmy thanking her before he climbs inside. Probably turning on the charm, too, if what Jimmy’s said about liking older women – like Mom! Jesus! – is really true. True to his word, he’s kept his jacket on, and now that he appears to just be wearing a plain black sweater and has even tucked his shirt in, Jimmy looks almost respectable.  
“Please state your name, for the record,” the bailiff says, after she’s made Jimmy swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing _but_ the truth, with his hand on what is probably a bible. It could be an old phonebook, for all Tweek knows.  
“James Valmer,” Jimmy replies, very calmly. “And I ap-pologize for m-my stutter.”  
You’re probably not supposed to say stuff like that in court, because the judge raises a single eyebrow. But Mr Black says, “That’s quite all right, son,” as he stands up again. Tweek suddenly gets a gut feeling that Jimmy’s acting on instructions from _him,_ bringing his stutter up right away.  
“Mr Valmer, can you describe what happened on the morning of November sixth?”  
“We w-were on our w-w-way to school,” Jimmy says, and he sounds irritated – with himself, probably, for stuttering this badly right off the bat. “Token was – I mean, Token Black w-was driving, and Tweek T-T-Tweak, Clyde D-Donovan and I were c-c-catching a ride. W-we always ride to s-s-school t-together. Then, the girlfriends – Token and Clyde’s g-girlfriends – w-w-waved the car down, and showed us the p-p-papers.”  
“By “the girlfriends”, are you referring to Nicole Daniels and Bebe Stevens?”  
“Yes, sir.”  
“Did the two of them mention where they had obtained these papers?”  
“B-Bebe did. She s-s-said piles of them had been l-left out in every c-c-classroom, and on the t-tables in the c-c-cafeteria. But that was after T-Tweek fainted.” Jimmy stops to lick his lips. “When he saw the h-headlines, w-we all tried to c-calm him down, but… He f-fainted, and then Clyde put him on his s-side in the b-back seat, until he w-w-woke up.”  
“And can you describe to the court, Mr Valmer, how you felt at the time?”  
“I was really w-worried,” Jimmy says, as his face darkens, “And r-really angry. We’d w-w-worked so hard on that edition, everyone on the n-n-newspaper c-committee. Tweek even helped d-develop some of the p-pictures. As the editor, I f-felt responsible.”  
Prompted by Mr Black, Jimmy goes on to explain how he phoned the printers, and was told that “someone with a stutter” had called in, with different delivery instructions. It’s only when Jimmy says that Cartman has many years’ practice making fun of his stutter; that Mr Broflofski finally stirs from behind the defendants’ table. “Objection, your honour,” he says, leaping to his feet. “That’s pure speculation! The witness has no proof that my client made that phone-call.”  
There is a long moment of nothing but silence, before the judge says, “Overruled, Mr Broflofski.” Her tone is so icy that Kyle’s dad practically _falls_ into his seat, and he doesn’t challenge Jimmy’s testimony again.  
“One last question,” Mr Black says, “Has Eric Cartman ever bullied or intimidated _you?_ ”  
“He’s tried,” Jimmy replies flatly. “But I’m n-not afraid of him.”  
Tweek, glancing over at Cartman’s table, can only wish he could say the same. Because the fat boy is leaning back in his seat, hands folded across his bulging shirt-front, his lips pulled up in a self-satisfied smirk. Almost like he _knows_ what’s coming, and is looking forward to it.


End file.
